A Routine Disturbance
by Fox Murphy
Summary: Co-authored with Midenianscholar. Newly appointed Auror Alastor Moody answers an ordinary disturbance call that turns out to be anything but ordinary. Mysterious attackers, magic journals, and time-travel certainly don't happen every day.
1. Disruptions and Diaries

A/N - On behalf of Midenianscholar and myself, I'm quite pleased to present a joint endeavor of an adventure story that we've been working on this last half of the semester. Mark belongs to Midenianscholar (who will be writing from his PoV), and to find more stories with him (and King Arthur), head on over to her profile. Alastor doesn't belong to me (but his PoVs _are_ written by me) but Donald and Tiberius do, and if you'd like to read more adventures with those three, then my profile is where you ought to look (and don't sweat, posting on _Soul_ will resume as soon as finals are done). So, without further ado: Once upon a time in London, 1947...

* * *

The paperwork atop the desk had reached a level high enough that it presented a slight problem in terms of being able to see what might be coming. Thus, when a hand crashed down atop one of the piles, sending a week's worth of forms flying, Alastor Moody nearly fell out of his seat in surprise.

"What the—" he cut off abruptly, glancing up in time to realize who precisely had interrupted his afternoon work. Not that he had been making altogether that much progress on the daunting amount of paperwork, but still.

"Not sleeping on the job, are you, Moody?" Henry Hawkins asked.

Auror Hawkins, unpleasant at the best of times, had recently been promoted and had taken great pride in abusing this new power.

"Course not, sir," Alastor replied, struggling not to let his irritation show. "Did you need something?"

"Matter of fact, I did," Hawkins said, dropping a file onto Alastor's desk. "Got a call out for you."

Alastor's hands seized the file, irritation forgotten at the prospect of an actual case. Surely, being his first official case, this would be highly exciting, probably some Dark Wizard who had escaped the war trials, and that would mean danger, and...

He could not help but be dismayed to find no Dark Wizards of any sort waiting for him inside the file.

"A disturbance?" Alastor asked. This time, he did not even bother trying to sound civil. "I'm not taking a disturbance case. That's for trainees. Which, as you might recall, I am not."

Hawkins' resulting glower was just as satisfying as Alastor had been hoping. Quite a number of the older Aurors had been rather irritated when Alastor passed training, and he enjoyed reminding them of his new status.

"Just because they gave you a badge doesn't mean you can pick and choose your assignments," Hawkins growled. "That's my job, and you'll do as I say."

Alastor's fist closed around the file, meeting Hawkins' glare with his own. For a moment, he considered arguing, because really this disturbance rubbish was highly unfair. Hawkins was clearly just giving him the bad assignments. But Alastor had been told countless times in training to please at least try to keep hold over his temper, and having a row over his first case would only land him in trouble. Especially with all those Aurors looking for a reason to take away his new badge. Not to mention, angering Hawkins would probably result in a decade's worth of desk duty.

"Can I at least take Tiberius with me?" Alastor asked instead.

Tiberius Kirk, an exceptionally tall Scotsman and Alastor's best mate all through their Hogwarts' years, had just passed his Auror training as well. Bringing Tiberius along would at least mean Alastor could complain about this grave injustice.

"Kirk's busy," Hawkins replied.

Not remotely believing that, because Tiberius was never busy, not if he could help it, Alastor stood to look over the top of his cubicle and see for himself. Sure enough, two desks over, Tiberius Kirk appeared to be sound asleep, one wobbly pile of forms dangerously close to falling on his head. Alastor rolled his eyes and sat back down.

"Best get moving," Hawkins suggested. "Hate for you to miss anything important."

Hawkins turned and left without waiting for a reply, which was for the best as Alastor had nothing at all polite to say. He scanned through the file again, memorizing the address before shrinking a few forms and stuffing them in his pocket.

Alastor tried his best not to storm through the office, reaching the locker room and only managing to draw a small amount of attention. He pulled his scarlet robes off their usual hook, stopping in front of the tilted mirror to make sure everything was in place. His robes were buttoned up smart, highly professional and all that. His auburn hair was probably still a bit long for the department's taste but Alastor didn't much care. Most importantly, his badge was in plain sight, hanging on his pocket and gleaming silver against the scarlet.

_Let Hawkins be mental_, Alastor decided. _And let Tiberius take his ruddy afternoon nap._ Alastor would still be out on his first case as an official Auror and he would never tell a soul it was a measly disturbance.

* * *

The place looked abandoned and badly kept, probably having been damaged in the war and never repaired. Certainly looked like the hideout of a Dark Wizard. Alastor checked the address once more, just to make sure he had in fact arrived at the correct location. Next he ran a few basic Detection Charms, which flowed first around the outside of the building, then beneath the door and inside. To his great surprise, the charms actually seemed to pick up on someone hidden within the derelict building. Alastor gave the door a try, only to find it either locked or jammed, probably both.

"Anybody care to open up?" he shouted, banging one fist against the door and not entirely expecting an answer.

Anyone hiding in an abandoned shop, after all, probably did not want to be found. Just as he suspected, the place remained utterly silent. Some disturbance, then, if the fellow refused to even so much as open the door. Hawkins had probably sent him out as a joke, and that idea irritated Alastor immensely.

"Ministry of Magic, Auror Department!" Alastor tried again. "I know someone's in there, just open the bloody door!"

This time, a voice echoed from within the building, faint, but firm nonetheless.

"Go away! I don't want any trouble!"

Well, at least that had been an answer. Alastor glanced up the street, just to make sure no one was watching in case he decided to break in. He had enough paperwork to worry about without also having to go around Obliviating various Muggles. The street was fairly abandoned anyway, nothing more than another row of shops just as ill-kept as the present object of his attention. Still, one could never be too careful.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," Alastor insisted. "Just sent to investigate. Why don't you come out here, and we'll have a chat?"

"Um. No. Thanks."

Alastor scowled, in no mood for that sort of talk from a potential suspect. He nearly shouted back when banging noises resounded from what sounded like the back of the house.

"HEY! Hey, back off!" whoever Alastor had been talking to insisted.

The noises did not cease, and in fact grew only louder. Alastor swore, because he'd be skinned alive if someone thought he had forgotten to check the back. This would of course have been highly unfair, because he had actually checked the back. The sudden arrival of several apparently hostile parties, however, did not make him feel much better.

"Everything alright in there?"

No answer, save for more banging and shouting, and Alastor concluded he would simply have to intervene. Not that he ever minded intervening.

"By authority of the Ministry," Alastor muttered, making sure his badge was in plain view. "I'm giving fair warning of my intent to enter and search this building."

Six seconds was the required time that had to elapse between informing a suspect of intent to enter and actually entering the building. Six seconds felt like far too long in Alastor's opinion, but he followed the rule all the same, drawing his wand as he waited. Then time was up, and Alastor kicked in the door, quite pleased that the disturbance had turned out to be exciting after all.

The door crashed inward, colliding with a wall, and the noise was loud enough to draw the attention of several people. Four men wearing black hooded robes seemed to have turned in his direction. In the corner surrounded by the men was a scruffy fellow who looked to be about his own age, wide-eyed and clinging to some battered old book.

Deciding he had given fair enough warning when he kicked in the door, Alastor hexed the nearest black-robed man. Four against one meant the scruffy fellow needed his help the most.

_"Stupefy!"_

The man went down in a burst of red light, but the other three had already drawn their wands and rounded on Alastor.

"The one with the book is who we want, get rid of the Auror!"

Two spells flew at him and Alastor dove sideways, landing behind the remains of a sofa. The place had evidently been a flat or a shop of some sort, because dusty pieces of furniture lay scattered around the floor. Across the room, the fellow with the book looked to be struggling to crawl through the wall. It had to have been the saddest escape attempt Alastor had ever seen, and he decided a diversion was in order.

Planting one hand atop the cushion, Alastor leaped neatly over the sofa, firing as he moved. He missed badly on the first two shots, caught the third man right in the chest with a stunner, and overall succeeded in distracting all three black-robed men. Unfortunately, he also succeeded in getting himself disarmed.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ one of the men shouted, and Alastor swore as his wand went soaring out of his hand. Now he was outnumbered and wandless. Rubbish.

"Won't be hard to finish him now," one of the men said.

Now that was just plain insulting, really. Never in his life had Alastor gone down without a fight, wand or no, and he certainly did not intend to now. Alastor braced himself, ready to duck or dodge at a moment's notice, at even the barest whisper of magic. Avoid the first spell, get within range, punch someone in the face, yes that seemed like a good plan. The plan was altered, however, when the scruffy fellow finally propelled himself away from the wall and leaped between Alastor and the men.

"Stop!"

To the great surprise of apparently everyone, the men did in fact stop. Not only did they stop, but they seemed to be struggling to move at all, as though they had been immobilized.

"What in Merlin's name did you do?" Alastor asked.

"I...ah...I'm not entirely sure," the fellow said. He shook his head and started to lower his arms, but Alastor stopped him.

"Whatever it was, leave it that way," Alastor said, moving to retrieve his wand. "Now, first I'll say thank you for that. And then I'll kindly ask who exactly you are."

"My name is Mark. Can you please do something with them? I don't know how long I can do this—I don't know _what_ I'm doing."

"Er...right," Alastor said. _"Incarcerous."_

Ropes snaked out and bound the black-robed men in place. When he was sure they were restrained, he nodded to Mark, who lowered his arms. The men started struggling immediately, but the ropes held fast. Keeping one eye on Mark, Alastor walked back over to the door and fired a burst of orange sparks into the air.

"Someone will be coming to take care of this," he explained in answer to Mark's confused look.

Mark's only answer was to sit down, beginning to look a bit ill.

"Are... are you hurt, or something?" Alastor asked, frowning but not entirely sure what to do. They had covered healing spells in training exercises, but they had never been his strong suit.

"I think I'm hallucinating," Mark replied, sounding as though he could not catch his breath.

"You're hallucinating," Alastor repeated. "Er... alright, what exactly are you seeing?"

"I'm in freaking 1947!" Mark snapped.

Alastor blinked, not entirely sure what the problem with that was. "June of '47, yeah. What's the problem?"

"Yesterday I was in June of 2010. Besides, that isn't the half of it!" Mark pointed to the black-robed men, still lying bound on the floor. "They're some sort of dark wizards who want me because I caused a disturbance, whatever that means. And you—" here he paused to point at Alastor now, "—you're from Hogwarts. I mean, at least you think you went to school there. And that doesn't exist!"

"Course I went to school there," Alastor grumbled, "It exists, I assure you."

Then he realized the first part of what Mark had been saying.

"2010?"

"Hogwarts doesn't exist. It's from J.K. Rowlings' bestselling children's series, 'Harry Potter,'" Mark insisted.

Alastor watched him warily for a moment, having no recollection of any such books or persons.

"I wasn't allowed to read it but I know that much," Mark added after a moment.

"...don't know any Harry Potter," Alastor said, "I know a Charlus though. Suppose they could be related."

What he did not say was that he thought this Mark fellow might not be all there. A case for the Healers at St. Mungo's, not the Auror Department. Besides, Hogwarts was quite real. Generations of witches and wizards could attest to that. Though come to think of it, Mark had used some sort of magic only moments ago.

"Hang on... where'd you learn magic then?" Alastor asked.

Mark just watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and a prickling feeling ran down Alastor's neck.

"You're going to report me," Mark guessed.

"I hadn't planned on it," Alastor admitted. "Seems like they were causing a disturbance, not you."

He aimed a kick at one of the black-robed men, just to prove his point.

"Oh," was all Mark said, standing again and beginning to flip through the book to which he had been clinging.

"What's that for?" Alastor asked. He had never seen a more battered-looking book in all his life. "Is that the thing those other wizards were looking for?"

"No. It's just something my mum gave me. Shop figures and stuff," Mark replied.

Alastor could not imagine why a book full of shop figures would be so important as to draw the attention of Dark Wizards, or even worth fighting over at all.

"Mind if I take a look?"

"You wouldn't be able to understand it," Mark said without hesitation.

Rather offended by that suggestion, Alastor gritted his teeth and tried to keep back his temper. Merlin, he had just rescued the fellow.

"And why's that?"

Mark had been pacing, still flipping pages at random, and he did not look up as he spoke.

"Because... it's in French."

French, admittedly, might not have been Alastor's strongest foreign language, but he felt like he knew more than most people. Thus Mark's previous statement only served to irk him more.

"I picked up a little French on the continent. Probably not enough to read your stupid book. And if you're hallucinating, maybe you ought to sit down," he added as an afterthought.

"Um, no. Thanks anyway," Mark said.

Mark turned toward the back door and shouted what sounded like _Openian!_ The door burst open and Mark went sprinting down the alley that opened up behind the shop. Alastor hesitated barely a second, more than slightly surprised.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, charging out the door after Mark.

Mark had the lead, splashing through puddles and dodging a trash bin. He seemed not to know where precisely he was going though, and stumbled every few steps. Alastor had no trouble catching up, jumping over a trash bin that had been knocked over. He considered jinxing Mark, but if the fellow really was a Muggle, there would be serious trouble, not to mention loads more paperwork. Finally, Mark began to slow down, tripping up over something. Alastor took the opportunity to close the remaining distance and bring Mark down in a tackle.

The wind was knocked out of them both, but Mark did not struggle too entirely much, and Alastor hung on easily.

"Please let me go!" Mark said.

"And why should I?" Alastor demanded. "Already helped you once today, and you thank me by bloody well running off!"

"You have no idea what you're doing! I have to get back!" Mark insisted.

Alastor rolled his eyes, tightening his hold as he attempted to haul Mark to his feet. "Back where? To whatever loony bin you've escaped from?"

"You don't want to fight me," Mark said through gritted teeth.

"Honestly, I don't," Alastor replied. He was not in much of a mood to fight, at least not with this fellow. Especially not with the size difference taken into account. There would be no challenge at all. "But I rather like my odds."

"Forlǣtan!" Mark shouted.

Alastor found himself colliding with a nearby wall, wind knocked out of him in a painful gasp as Mark sprang up and dashed away again. Swearing under his breath, Alastor drew his wand and took aim.

_"Stupefy!"_

He must have whacked his head on the wall too, because the stunner arched harmlessly to the right.

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Alastor grumbled. _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

This time the spell struck, and Mark staggered for a moment before collapsing and falling face-first onto the ground. Satisfied and nodding to himself, Alastor took a deep breath before wandering up the alley. He leaned over Mark, wand at the ready as he loosened the charms just enough to have a conversation.

"Now. Are you going to come with me or not?"

"Promise me one thing," Mark replied, closing his eyes.

Alastor never much liked when people said that. Never could tell what people planned to make you promise to do.

"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.

"That you won't let them give me any drugs between now and four hours from now," Mark said.

Alastor had expected to hear, perhaps "don't arrest me" or "call my parents." Certainly nothing about medication.

"Er...I...wasn't planning to anyway but...alright," Alastor answered.

He could at least promise that in good conscience. Mark, for his part, made no response, as his eyes rolled back and he went entirely still.

"Is this some sort of..." Alastor rolled his eyes, not about to be thrown into another wall by this fellow's tricks. Mark's pulse seemed fine, if not a little slow, and he seemed to be genuinely unconscious. "Oh. Ah. Well."

With some slight difficulty, Alastor managed to lift Mark more or less off the ground, one limp arm slung over his shoulder. Checking to make sure the scuffle had not drawn anyone's attention, Alastor drew his wand, turning in place and Apparating away.

* * *

Mark's head felt like fire. _Too much magic. Overdid it._ His skin was cold with sweat, and his breathing was ragged. But he was thinking clearly—and he wasn't buzzing with energy. Alastor must have kept his promise, and not let anyone give him medication.

A burst of pain went through Mark's gut, and he groaned. He rolled on his back, blinking at the ceiling and wishing that one of these times he would just die instead of going through that fever again.

A man was leaning over him, and he waved. It was Alastor—the fellow who'd found him in his uncle's shop. "Feeling better?"

Mark closed his eyes. _I'm still here,_ he thought, though he wasn't entirely surprised. "No."

"Do you remember anything?"

"Basically," Mark grunted. "Might have lost track of a few of your cuss words, but it's fairly intact."

Alastor took a seat nearby. "I'm happy to repeat them for you if you feel the need," he said, his tone a little offended. When Mark didn't respond, Alastor shifted. "Right, suppose now's a decent enough time for introductions. I'm Alastor Moody, er…Auror Moody, technically speaking."

Though he had already gathered so much, Mark nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Mark Wright, but I guess you already knew that."

Leaning back in his chair, Alastor asked, "Now, you feel like explaining what you were doing in that house?"

"Trying to get home," Mark answered. He stared at the roof, feeling every bone of his body aching. He should not use heavy magic for a while.

"And where might home be?" Alastor asked, taking out a notebook.

"Berry College, Rome, Georgia." Mark was about to begin his junior year there as a foreign exchange student. Go figure, he was halfway to graduation and then he somehow time-traveled into Harry Potter's London. "Or my flat in London. Whichever you prefer." He named the address.

"… Let's go with the flat in London," Alastor said, writing it down. "Someone going to be looking for you?"

Mark glanced at Alastor without turning his head. "Not for about seventy years." Even then, there weren't many people who would look for him. Those that wanted to use his magic, sure, and maybe a few people at school. But he had no living family to care.

One of Alastor's eyebrows lifted and his jaw went a little slack. "Er… back to that time travel business?"

"Yes. Is there a problem with me telling the truth?" Mark had been reading his mum's book again, which was a habit he needed to stop. Before she died, his mum made a journal for Mark that was entirely in Old English, filled with various spells and advice. But every time he ventured into the realm of Old English, he ended up getting himself into trouble. This time he had blinked and found himself in the street outside his uncle's old shop—except it was a good fifty years before his uncle would own it.

"No…" Alastor said, as if he wasn't quite sure. He tapped his pencil on his notepad. "Just… have you got a Time Turner then?"

"I have no idea what that is." Mark waved his hands, making a sarcastic guess. "Something to do with Doctor Who?"

"What's a Doctor Who?" Alastor asked, no comprehension in his face.

Barely resisting from rolling his eyes, Mark said, "Doctor Who. The TV series. Longest running in history."

"Haven't the foggiest." His eyes narrowed. "But I don't… wait, you mean like the Muggle shows?"

It was Mark's turn to look like an idiot. "Muggle? What?"

"Oh, Merlin," Alastor muttered, looking at his notepad. "This is ridiculous."

Rubbing his forehead, Mark closed his eyes again. "Look, can you quit saying Merlin?" he asked.

"Why?" Alastor demanded.

Mark groped for a way to explain it. "Because it's like swearing with Queen Victoria's name," he said. _It's like swearing on your great-grandfather's name, actually._

"I've never sworn with Queen Victoria's name. What's it matter to you?"

Giving up on his point, Mark asked, "How about you can explain to me why I am in Harry Potter land?"

"Still dunno what in… what you're on about," Alastor corrected himself. "There isn't any Harry Potter that I know of."

Cautiously, Mark eased himself so that he was sitting up more. His middle felt like it was in knots, and he winced. "I thought wizards didn't exist."

Alastor snorted. "Course we exist. Just got the Statute of Secrecy and all that, so the Muggles don't know."

"What are Muggles?" Mark asked again, leaning back against the headboard.

"You know… non-wizards. Ordinary people. Folks that can't use magic."

This was too much. A secret wizarding society that Mark had never heard mentioned—excepting in a children's novel? But there was a way to find out the truth.

For a moment, Mark hesitated. He had not purposefully searched someone's memories more than a few times, and he was not sure if a wizard would be able to feel what he was doing. But his curiosity won out.

Mark looked Alastor in the face and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he felt himself relax, and just like that the room disappeared. He flashed through Alastor's memories and thoughts, his head reeling with all the information. It took him a moment to gain control and navigate through the stream of consciousness.

Alastor's life played before Mark's eyes in seconds: Hogwarts, a girl with glasses, the death of his father, training as an Auror. As far as Alastor was concerned, every bit of it was real.

There was a moment—foggy even to Mark—where he saw Alastor, older, hand on a glass and a friend of his berating him for drinking.

Hastily, Mark drew back into himself. The room settled around him, and there was a stabbing in his chest for a moment. Rubbing the spot of pain, he considered what he had seen.

Alastor was looking at him suspiciously. "What?"

Perhaps there was some truth here. Immediately Mark's skepticism argued, but he tried to push it aside. It was true according to Alastor—and for now, his life's testimony would have to do. "Alright. So what are you going to do with me?"

"I've no idea. You've not done anything wrong. Free to go if you like, I suppose."

Mark threw his feet over the side of the bed. "Great."

Standing, Alastor tucked the notepad into his jacket. "Though you'll want to watch out for those black robed fellows. And you'll have to go pick up your book."

For the first time, Mark realized that his book was not in the room. He glanced around quickly, while feeling his pockets. Panic rose in him. That was his only way home. "You _took_ my book?"

"Didn't take it, exactly. You dropped it. Besides, just a book. My friend at the Department of Mysteries has it. Where we send all the evidence we collect—processing and all that."

Mark pushed himself off the bed. The room swayed, and he put a hand on the mattress. That pain was back, and he winced. "Can you take me there?"

"Sure." Alastor opened the door. "Just down a couple floors. Long as you feel like walking, and promise you won't faint on me again."

"I'll try," Mark promised. Alastor lead the way out and down a long hall. There were doors on either side, and it looked like a vintage hospital.

"So, where exactly did you say you were from again?" Alastor asked over his shoulder.

"London, originally," Mark answered, rubbing the back of his neck. He had moved to the U.S. for school, and just come back this summer to tie up the last matters in his uncle's will.

"Why didn't you go to Hogwarts, then?" Alastor asked. "They send you to a school someplace else?"

"As Hogwarts does not exist, that would have been impossible," Mark said, glancing in a door as they passed by.

"Would you stop that?" Alastor spun around. "It exists. Believe me. I'm this close," he held up two fingers, "to dragging you up there without your stupid book."

Mark glared. "I was homeschooled, and I currently attend Berry College."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" When Mark didn't answer, Alastor went on, "Where'd you get your wand from, then? Some rubbish American maker?"

"Don't use a wand."

They came to a stop outside of what looked to be an elevator. Alastor turned towards Mark in surprise. "You don't use… but you froze those wizards earlier. Telling me you can do wandless magic? I don't think I believe that."

Mark was tired of being taunted. He held up his hand and whispered, "Becuman." _Come._ Alastor's notepad flew from his jacket into Mark's hand.

The gaping look on Alastor's face was quite satisfying. "Give that back!"

Mark whispered, "Bæc." He waited a moment. "It's back in your pocket," Mark told Alastor, trying not to look too smug.

"Fine," Alastor grumbled, checking to make sure nothing else had been taken. "Suppose you might be able to after all."

With a ding, the elevator door opened. Alastor stepped inside, motioning Mark to follow. The pain flared worse, and Mark wanted to curse himself. He shouldn't be showing off when he was so close to putting himself into another fever.

Alastor seemed to notice the look on his face. As the doors shut, he asked, "Not got a problem with lifts, have you?"

"No," Mark answered, putting his hand over his middle. "I'm just… not entirely used to using so much magic in such a short time."

"Really?" asked Alastor, rocking on his heals a little. "Never heard of that being a problem. Not like you did anything major, at least."

"Beside—" _time traveling_, Mark was going to say. But just then the floor dropped out from his feet. Gasping, Mark grabbed onto one of the rails against the side. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down nausea and sickly terror. The wood of the rail was cutting into his hands, he was gripping it so hard—and he could feel the urge to let the magic loose and wild. Panic made his control slippery.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed that Alastor had his arms crossed, leaning against the other wall with a smirk. "Alright there?"

Mark's stomach was still somewhere in the sky. "Oh god," he gulped.

"If you're going to be sick, I expect a warning," Alastor said, raising his eyebrows.

"If I don't crush this elevator you'll be lucky!" Mark snapped. He was about three seconds away from stopping the plunge himself. His gut was on fire—he was going to cave in and let the magic free. Based on how he was feeling, he had a pretty good guess that it would destroy the lift as soon as he released it.

Just then, the lift came to an abrupt halt, nearly knocking Mark to the floor. A cheerful voice declared, "Level Nine, Department of Mysteries." The doors swung open, and Alastor paused to frown at Mark.

"Just a quick ride," Alastor said. "No need to crush the thing."

Mark closed his eyes, pressing an arm against his abdomen and leaning on the rail. "Are we there?"

"Matter of fact, we are," Alastor said with mock surprise. "Care to come along?" Mark muttered under his breath, stumbling out. "Good man. Right this way."

There was a door standing alone at the end of the hall. Alastor knocked twice, then waited. Mark didn't mind—he was still getting his balance back, and standing still was about the best feeling in the world.

The door swung open, though no one was visible. Inside was a wide, circular room lined by twelve doors with no handles. Blue torches provided the only light, and the floor reflected like water underneath their feet as they entered. Mark took a glance down and then focused entirely on Alastor. The motion sickness was not gone yet, and the floor made him feel giddy.

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries," Alastor said, extending his hands like a guide.

"Fantastic. Where is my book?"

"What, not interested in the tour? They've got brains in a tank, you know."

Mark tried to keep his voice from dropping to a growl. "My book, please."

With a shrug, Alastor approached one of the doors and knocked. "Don, you in there?" he asked.

The door swung open, and a thin man with round glasses poked his head out through a crack. Images of Hogwarts, cards, and books scrawled with riddles jumped through Mark's mind before he could shut them out. "I'm working?" the man—Donald—said, slightly annoyed.

Alastor motioned towards Mark. "This fellow wants his book back."

Donald turned to Mark, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. His eyes were sharp. "Very interesting book you have in your possession, Mr…?"

"Mark Wright," Mark answered.

"Mark. And then I say I'm Donald Pritchett, Unspeakable, so that I can say pleasure to meet you, followed by, please follow me." He opened the door wider, motioning the two of them to enter.

"Um, thanks," Mark said, stepping inside. The office was immaculately neat, every paper in perfect place and almost every surface clear. There were large windows overlooking the countryside. Mark guessed it was only with some sort of magic that they could see the country in the heart of London.

Donald went to a large desk in one corner and shuffled through a few papers. He held up Mark's book. "Here we are!"

Relieved to see it safe, Mark took a step toward Donald and held out his hand for it. "Thank you."

Tapping his finger against the leather cover, Donald looked past Mark's shoulder. "Did you get a look at this book earlier, Alastor?" he asked.

"Wasn't anything I recognized," Alastor answered.

Turning back to Mark, Donald remarked, "It's in Old English, if I'm not mistaken. Not many manuscripts like that. Do you mind my asking where you picked it up?"

Mark took the book, his hands feeling the soft prick of the leather. But there was something else—something felt different about it. "My mum gave it to me," he answered distractedly, glancing at the journal. Magic. In this place smothered with magic, he could still sense that something in particular had been done to his book. He forced the tension out of his shoulders as he glanced back at Donald, willing himself to see what had happened.

"Family heirloom, then?" Donald was saying.

Mark scanned through Donald's memories quickly. He'd made a copy of the book, for closer reading, but he'd given Mark the original. As the room settled around Mark again, he answered, "Not exactly. She wrote it, so it isn't that old." He hesitated. The book held secrets of his family, secrets to his magic. It would be risky to leave a copy.

But he could not very well explain that he had been searching their minds. And he did not know how they would react when he demanded the copy. As far as he knew, it would be useless to them—they obviously did not use the same guidelines for their magic.

Based on what he had seen in their memories, they would not do any harm with the information. He did not want to stir up trouble, and he felt desperately impatient to get back to his reading. There had to be a way for him to get home written in this book.

Mark turned to Alastor. "I'm free to leave now, yes?"

Alastor shrugged a little. "Sure. You remember the way out, or you need me to walk you?"

Mark locked eyes with him, looking for the way out. Once he had it, he shook his head. "No, I know how to get out." He walked to the door. "Thanks."

Moving to stand beside Donald, Alastor muttered, "Odd fellow, that one." To Mark, he said, "Nice meeting you, then. Enjoy your book, I suppose."

"Right." Mark hesitated, glancing back at them. When he looked at Alastor, he felt that memory again—drinking, miserable, weary. A memory that had not happened yet. _Prophecy_, Mark thought, feeling goose bumps rising on his arms. He had never been able to tell the future before. "Don't drink too much," he said on an impulse. "Erm—bye." He ducked out, and hurried to find his way back to the street.

* * *

Alastor frowned at Mark's retreating back, more at the parting words than at the parting in general.

"What's he talking about? I don't drink that much."

"You certainly don't," Donald agreed good-naturedly.

He had the look about him that meant his mind was elsewhere, but Alastor felt rather determined to have at least some small discussion on the mater. Besides, all Donald had to do was agree with him.

"Tiberius drinks more than me," Alastor said.

"Indeed he does," Donald agreed again.

Alastor considered this for a moment, still thoroughly at a loss as to what Mark might have meant. Donald, for all his agreeableness, was being no help at all. He would simply have to sort this out later. Perhaps over a pint, just to be ironic.

"Oh well," Alastor said, shrugging. "You made a copy, right?"

Donald, who had retreated back to his desk, snorted and fixed Alastor with a look overtop his glasses.

"Of course I made a copy."


	2. Not Exactly MindReading

Two days passed without sign of Mark, and Alastor liked to think the fellow had just gone home. Or perhaps, been taken to a mad house. Either one would be fine. Tiberius had taken the story with a fair amount of humor and curiosity, and more than once he had made some comment about the unfairness of not being asked to come along in the first place. Alastor usually took those moments to point out that Tiberius had in fact been sleeping on the job, and arguments were generally avoided. Donald wound up working with one of the older Unspeakables, Croaker or something like that, and had not had much time to work on translating Mark's book. The way Donald went on about whatever the odd project was that now occupied his attention (something about time, was really all that Alastor had managed to pick up), it was impossible to tell whether or not he was concerned at all about the book anyway. Alastor himself was quite curious, and rather wished Don would hurry up and finish the job already.

Patrol managed to keep Alastor busy enough, even if the job was woefully unexciting. Even after the relative success of his disturbance call, Hawkins had not assigned him any more remotely interesting cases. At least this time, Alastor decided, he was stuck on patrol with Tiberius. Both of them wore plain clothes, as there was no sense in wearing scarlet robes in the middle of Muggle London. In ordinary shirts and trousers, Tiberius and Alastor earned no extra attention, or at least, not much anyway. Tiberius still looked uncomfortable, though whether that was from all the Muggles or all the stares he was receiving, Alastor was unsure. Not every day did one see a fellow quite so shockingly tall as Tiberius Kirk, and even though Alastor himself was not short by any means, Tiberius still towered over him and everyone else. At present, Tiberius had attempted to hide his height a bit by leaning against a wall and slumping down. The idea was not especially effective, but they had been walking for awhile so Alastor joined him against the wall, eyes scanning over the crowd.

A woman pushed a baby carriage, shopping bags hanging from either arm. Two boys headed into a pub, wearing expressions that suggested they were sneaking about in one way or another. A cluster of schoolgirls, giggling and chattering and smiling up at Tiberius and Alastor as they passed. Nothing even remotely out of the ordinary, just people and noise and a warm summer day. Alastor was just about to suggest heading over to Piccadilly instead when a flash of movement caught his attention. There, dashing through the crowd, was a scruffy fellow in worn-looking clothes. He had vanished again as soon as Alastor stepped away from the wall, a shadow dancing down a narrow side-street, but Alastor knew what he had seen.

"You remember that fellow I said I met on my disturbance call?" Alastor asked lightly.

Tiberius tilted his head, considering the question. "Tha one with tha funny book?"

"Yeah, him. Think he just ran by," Alastor replied.

"You're seeing things," Tiberius said with a snort. "Just tryin' ta make this more interesting."

"Rather it be interesting than me be bored to tears," Alastor grumbled.

He stayed beside Tiberius, watching the side street all the while. Perhaps Mark had gone home, and was simply taking a shortcut back. Maybe the fellow just looked perpetually scruffy. Alastor neither knew nor cared, but he rather doubted anyone went sprinting through a crowded street for no reason at all. He had a rather distinct feeling that something would happen any moment. Something interesting, hopefully, and not something too entirely life-threatening. The feeling was proven correct moments later when shouts began to echo from what Alastor swore was the same street.

"You hear that?"

"Aye, suppose I did," Tiberius allowed, eyeing both the street and Alastor with some concern. "And I suppose you'll want ta go look?"

"Well. It's our responsibility, really."

"Could be nothing," Tiberius observed.

"Probably ought to at least take a look," Alastor said. "Just in case."

If Tiberius had any further argument, he kept it quiet and instead followed Alastor across the street. They slipped between two parked motors, careful to avoid a collision with a trio of children racing each other down the sidewalk. Once Alastor was quite sure no one was watching, he slipped into the side street, Tiberius close behind.

The street was really little more than an alley, shadowed by the nearby buildings and broken by dustbins and piles of boxes. The noises, definitely shouting of some sort, echoed from further on down, and Alastor picked up his pace to a jog, drawing his wand from his pocket.

"Suppose it's not nothing," Tiberius allowed.

"Thank you."

They rounded a corner to find a dead end, but someone else had already found the place first. Two more men in black cloaks had backed Mark into a corner. Mark, aside from looking considerably more ragged than the last time Alastor had seen him, had also managed to find himself a fancy-looking sword. The sword was presently being used to attempt to scare off the black-cloaked men, but said attempt did not look to be working especially well.

"Why's he got a sword?" Tiberius whispered.

"Dunno," Alastor admitted. "He didn't before."

"You sure about that?"

Alastor really felt as though now was not the time to be discussing his recall skills, and could not help but be a bit annoyed anyway by the doubt in Tiberius' tone.

"That's the sort of thing you remember. Course I'm bloody sure."

Tiberius looked to be about to say something else, an apology, hopefully, but Mark decided to take a swing at one of his attackers. The strike missed, the black-cloaked men merely backing out of the way, and one of the men raised his wand in Mark's direction. Nobody had realized that two Aurors had also entered the alley, which gave Alastor a nice advantage of surprise.

_"Stupefy!"_

The man with the raised wand dropped instantly, and his companion whirled to face the newcomers, looking quite shocked. Alastor advanced, intending to disarm the second man as well while Tiberius bound the first attacker with a quick _Incarcerous_. Mark raised his free hand though, shouting something in that odd language again and sending the man sprawling on the ground. With a speed Alastor had not expected, Mark dove on the man, sword placed against his throat.

"Oi!" Tiberius shouted. "Easy now, havenae got ta go about killing people!"

Mark ignored him, and Alastor would have sworn that Mark's hands had started to glow with a bluish tinge. Alastor took a few steps closer, intending to bend down and take a proper look, but by this point Tiberius had crossed the distance as well, having finished alerting the Aurors as to the arrest of the two men.

"Come on now mate." Tiberius reached down and tugged lightly on Mark's shoulder, trying to draw his attention. "Self- defense only goes so far and all."

Moving again with surprising speed, Mark was on his feet in an instant, and this time the point of the sword was pressed against Tiberius' chest. Tiberius froze, eyes widening as he looked from the sword to Mark and back again, thoroughly at a loss as to what to do. Auror training did not exactly cover how to handle sword-related situations, after all. Alastor, for his part, did not hesitate. Mental as Mark might have been, he was not about to skewer Tiberius. Not if Alastor could stop it. Ignoring the sudden flare of his temper, Alastor reached out with a smooth speed, bringing one arm around Mark's neck in a chokehold and pressing his wand against Mark's temple.

"I'd drop the sword if I was you, mate."

Nobody moved, nobody breathed, and for a moment everything slowed and stopped, all three of them waiting to see who would act first. Then Mark took a deep breath, slumping a bit, and the tension began to seep away. Slowly, the sword in Mark's hand lowered until the point nearly touched the ground. Once no one seemed to be in imminent danger of being run through, Alastor released his hold.

"Tiberius Kirk...?" was all Mark said, frowning up at the towering Scotsman.

"...Aye, that's me. What about it?" Tiberius asked.

"Ha!" Mark glanced at Alastor now, as though he had just reached some especially humorous realization. "I guess that makes you Spock."

Alastor shot a look at Tiberius, who shrugged. Mentally he added another tally to the list of reasons why Mark was clearly insane before replying, "Who the blazes is Spock?"

"Never mind," said Mark, still looking more or less amused.

Of course, he began to look less amused as be began to take in his surroundings, and froze entirely when he spotted the black-cloaked men.

"Same fellows that were giving you trouble last time?" Alastor guessed.

"Yeah. They grabbed me about ten minutes after I left your office," Mark replied.

"Old friends of yours?" Tiberius asked. Alastor could not tell if he was making a joke or if that had been a sincere question.

"In a way." Mark rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, as though he had suddenly grown very, very tired. "They took my book."

"Didn't seem like all that valuable of a book," Alastor murmured.

Mark did not seem to entirely appreciate that comment, but Tiberius spoke first and spared him the inevitable irritable reply.

"That tha one Don was looking at?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Alastor said.

"A copy of it, rather," Mark corrected. He had already begun to walk away back towards the main part of the alley by the time his words had really registered. Warnings flared up immediately, and Alastor scowled at Mark's retreating back, temper stirring again.

"You've been using Legilimency on us!"

Tiberius looked faintly surprised at that, and Alastor was just shy of horrified at the possibility that someone had been looking through his private thoughts. Mark paused mid-stride, turning to glance back at him.

"Pardon?"

"Mind-reading," Alastor growled. "We didn't tell you about the copy."

"It's not exactly mind-reading," Mark insisted.

"Really?" Tiberius asked, tone matching his disbelieving expression.

Mark started to walk again, no longer facing them. He kept talking though, moving his hands as he spoke.

"It's like...like walking through an art gallery. Your lives are on display and I can choose to shield my face or I can see them."

If Alastor had been irritated before, he was now fairly unnerved as well. Tiberius cast a sidelong glance in his direction, evidently feeling much the same. Thoughts were private, in Alastor's opinion, and some memories ought not to be shared. The fact that Mark could see all that made his skin crawl. Alastor took this as a clear sign that he ought to be working on his own Occlumency skills.

"I suggest you quit looking then," Alastor said gruffly. "You and your art gallery have fun finding your book."

"I think you're going to help me," Mark replied, turning to face them once more.

"And why's that?" Alastor asked.

"Because I'm no match for wizards like them," Mark said simply. "You two are well-trained, obviously."

That had to have been one of the most shameless attempts at flattery Alastor had ever heard, nor was he about to fall for it. Still, no harm in taking the compliment.

"'Preicate that," Tiberius said.

"It'd be an adventure. Two wizards and a madman against dozens," Mark went on.

Well, at least Mark had admitted to being mad. That ought to make things easier in the future.

"See now, that's why we joined the Aurors," Alastor explained, smirking a bit. "Adventures, that's all we get."

"Besides, who said there were dozens?" Tiberius asked. "Probably just some mental book collector. Don can just make another copy for you."

The idea sounded perfectly reasonable to Alastor, but Mark seemed to disagree.

"If they translate that book..." Mark hesitated, biting his lip.

"They'll bring about the end of the world?" Alastor guessed, grin widening as Tiberius choked back a laugh.

Mark stayed quiet for a moment, as though trying to decided what to say. Finally he chose his words, taking a deep breath.

"Seventy years from now, a woman is going to be discovered as one of the last of Merlin's bloodline. And she's going to be killed."

Silence for a beat, because surely Mark had to be kidding. Then again, who made up stories like that? Alastor glanced at Tiberius, who frowned at Mark, sizing him up. Tiberius had always had a knack for reading people, and that tended to come in handy on all sorts of occasions.

"Sounds like a regular murder mystery, doesn't it?" Alastor muttered.

"Aye," Tiberius said at last, "come on, mate, Merlin dinnae have a bloodline."

"If Merlin doesn't have a bloodline, why can I use magic without a wand?" Mark asked.

Tiberius shrugged, not at all phased by the question.

"Some wizards can. Dumbledore can."

"You'd probably do better with a wand," Alastor added.

"Can Dumbledore read a person's history in a glance?" Mark pressed.

Alastor was not entirely sure about that one, but Dumbledore did always seem to know more than he ought to about all sorts of situations. Not to mention the man was a powerful wizard. Most powerful in the world, after the battle with Grindlewald.

"Maybe not a history," Alastor allowed. "But I think he's a pretty fair Legimens."

"So really, you're a powerful, untrained wizard. All we _ought_ to do is bring you back ta tha Department," Tiberius said, summing everything up in one neat reply.

"Not to mention, why should we look for your book when Don can just make you a new one?" Alastor asked again.

"Because if those wizards find out who I am they are going to kill my parents! Assuming they don't get their hands on me first," Mark insisted.

He had begun to sound a bit frantic now, gesturing wildly and speaking of himself only as an afterthought. The fellow really was having a hard time, and Alastor was having some difficulty not feeling bad for him.

"Let's go find your parents then. Warn them. Then the three of you can hide out or something." Alastor paused, glancing over Mark and taking in his appearance. "Looks like you could use a night at home anyway."

"My mother won't even be born for twenty years or more," Mark said flatly.

"So we're back to the Time Turner business?" Alastor asked, rolling his eyes. Merlin, here he was trying to help, and all Mark could do was talk all sorts of rubbish about time travel or some other nonsense.

"If you could have saved your father from death when he was killed in the war, wouldn't you have tried?" Mark snapped.

Vaguely Alastor heard Tiberius speak, something about "not bringing that up." Mostly everything went quiet, save for the blood pounding in his ears. Alastor knew his face had gone alarmingly red, and he was sputtering in effort to manage some reply. His first instinct was to hit Mark, hard, but somehow he managed to refrain, fists clenched at his sides. Mark had no right, _no right_ to be looking at those memories.

"I've never known my father and I'm not going to be responsible for his death," Mark said, holding his sword defensively now, expecting an attack.

Alastor scowled, drawing in a sharp, painful breath. He pointed one finger at Mark, opened and closed his mouth, words screaming through his mind but refusing to emerge. His temper was boiling, roaring, and before he could do anything too out of hand, Alastor strode past Mark and stormed away, leaving the alley behind as quickly as possible.

Mark watched Alastor's retreating back, his insides cold. The sword's tip lowered again.

"Now why would you go and do something like that?" Tiberius asked, turning back from his friend.

"To make a point." Mark ran a hand through his hair. His head still ached from the night before. "I'm going whether or not you help. Have a good time doing paperwork." Swinging his sword up to rest on his shoulder, Mark began to walk.

Tiberius followed him. "But that's not tha kindest way ta make a point." He paused, leaning forward to get a look at Mark's face. "Here's tha part where you say, 'We do it to save the wizarding world.' Cannae exactly going around arresting people for what they might do, can we?"

"I think it's safe to say that if they translate that book of spells, the wizarding world is going to drastically change. Not that I know much about the wizarding world as it is," Mark admitted, shooting a glance at Tiberius. "There are no wizards where I am from, at least I don't think so."

"You're not a wizard?"

"Not in the same way you are," Mark said.

Raising one eyebrow, Tiberius muttered, "Interesting. You ought ta talk with Donny sometime. Think he'd get on well with you." Donald, the man who had made a copy of Mark's book—Mark remembered him. "Anyway, saving the wizarding world," Tiberius went on, holding up a finger, "now it's officially something we can take interest in."

Mark stopped walking and turned to Tiberius. He smiled a little. Tiberius held out his hand, and Mark shook it. "Thanks."

"Tha pleasure is mine," Tiberius answered, a smile in his eyes.

Mark glanced back in the direction Alastor had gone. "Look, I'm sorry about... him. But I spent the night trying to escape and they gave me something..." He winced as the pain in his head flared again. "It's only begun to wear off this morning. Not much of an excuse, but it was little of me to say."

"He'll... he'll be fine." Tiberius looked back, too. Mark felt images brush against his mind—Alastor crouched on the floor, mad with grief, and the funeral on a snowy day in London. "I'll try and talk him down, and if not he'll talk to... well, he'll be fine. Probably wonnae be too cheerful around you for awhile though. Sensitive subject and all that it is."

"I understand." Mark looked at his sword. He'd found it in the place they were keeping him—wherever that had been. The memory of his captivity was fuzzy. Whatever they had given him had been enough to put him into a slight frenzy, and to interfere with his recall. The sword had always felt like a natural weapon to him, and he had taken it up. But he wasn't sure what to do with it now. He wouldn't be able to walk across London with it in the open. "I don't know the Old English word for 'sheath,'" he muttered.

Tiberius waved his wand, and the sword disappeared. "There you have it."

Mark looked around, startled. "Where did it go?"

Blinking as if he had not thought about that before, Tiberius said, "Vanished objects... they're sort of... they just... like they go to a special waiting room that we cannae see. Merlin, but Transfiguration's not my strongest subject. It'll come back when you want it."

"Ah, alright. Anyway." Brushing his hands off on his pants, Mark glanced in the direction Alastor had gone.

Tiberius checked his watch. "Patrol's ended." Turning, he shouted, "Alastor!" There was no answer. "Seems ta have left. That's probably for the best, really."

"What should I do next, about the book?" Mark asked.

"Suppose we ought to go back to where you had it last."

Mark stuck his hands in his pockets and began to walk. "Easier said than done."

"Why's that?" Tiberius asked, walking beside him.

"They gave me a sleeping drought, I think. Everything's a buzz from when they blindfolded me to an hour or two ago. I don't take well to any sort of drug or medication," Mark added.

"Could have been a Confundus Charm, too... these blokes were wizards and all. So you donnae remember where you were, or who they are?"

"If I could look at one of the men, I could find the information."

Tiberius changed direction. "Then it's back ta headquarters, if you donnae mind."

* * *

A/N - So finals are now done, updates should be quicker, all that good stuff. Not to mention, reviews are great and wonderful things, so feel free to leave a few ;D


	3. A Sinister Dress Shop

A/N - Sincere apologies for the epic delay - the chapter sort of ended up lost in my e-mail for a week or so. Anyway, when last we saw our heroes, they were heading back to Auror HQ to interrogate a suspect...

* * *

Darkness. A single light bulb. Cloaked men. Mark could see himself through this wizard's eyes—bound and gagged, half sick on the medication they'd given him. They had his old leather book, turning it in their hands and muttering among themselves. A lineage of Merlin, and a book with the keys to Merlin's powers. All they had to do was begin the translation.

_But then Mark's hands were glowing—something was wrong. He said a word and the ropes untied. He grabbed one of the decorative swords they kept on their walls, and then he bolted for the door. _

_The man followed with two others. They burst through a shop, and out onto the street. There, that was the name. There was the address._

Mark waited for a moment, his eyes closed and his thoughts still mixed with another's memories. In the distance, he heard Tiberius whisper, "You suppose it's working?"

"Can't say I really care," Alastor grumbled.

Blinking, Mark found himself back in the prison room. He was sitting across from one of his captors, and the man looked as if he were in a bit of a panic. The process of finding their hideout had taken about five minutes, Mark guessed. However, considering he hadn't said a word to anyone since he began looking for information, it was understandable that the man was unnerved. Turning to the others, Mark said, "I've got it."

"Excellent," said Tiberius, a little uncertainly. "Where to then?"

Mark pushed himself to his feet. "1st Street," he said. He paused to give a nod toward the prisoner. "Thank you kindly for your cooperation, Mr. Williamston." Grinning at the man's stunned look, Mark left the room.

"Off we go then," said Tiberius.

Alastor followed, his face still dark. "Why don't you two go, and leave me alone?"

With an impatient sigh, Tiberius said, "Just come on. You'll complain if you donnae."

Even though Alastor did come with them, he still complained loudly. Mark dug his hands into his pockets and walked at a brisk pace. Every minute that ticked by meant that those wizards were getting closer to translating the work. The thought that his entire family could be saved if he acted quick enough made Mark's skin prickle. Perhaps… perhaps when he finally made it back, he would not be an orphan any more.

He had been an orphan most of his life. When he was two years old, his parents had gone on a weekend vacation to the beach while he stayed with his uncle. His father never came back. Mark later learned that strange men had attacked his mum, and his father had died fending them off. For eight years, he and his mum had shifted alone—she working night jobs, and homeschooling Mark during the day. But there was a car chase, and that had ended in another death.

The blow was still tender, but the hardest memory was that of his uncle's death just seven months ago. It was just before Christmas when his uncle had been kidnapped and killed. Mark struggled enough trying not to blame himself for that death. He did not want to have his whole family's deaths resting on his shoulders. Maybe if he got the book back, none of that would have to happen. He would not have to worry about what to do with the will, or after school was done, or what to cook every night…

Just then, Mark's stomach cramped in hunger. Covering his stomach with one hand, he blinked a fog out of his eyes. He was beginning to feel lightheaded from all this running around, with little to no food since he had time traveled.

"Did you see what sort of place it was?" Tiberius asked.

"Well, um, yes," Mark answered, caught off guard.

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Then would you care to tell us what we're looking for?"

Mark hesitated, embarrassed. "… A woman's dress shop."

"Er… really?" Tiberius asked.

"There's a basement underneath," Mark explained. "I mean, it makes sense. No fellow in his right mind would look for them there."

"Got a point," Tiberius admitted. Alastor shrugged.

Mark's legs were shaking with fatigue. Family or no, he was going to have to eat if he didn't want to pass out. "Do you still have fish and chips around here?" he asked. He thought he could smell a stand nearby.

"Can't recall ever not having them," Alastor said, a little sharply.

"Good. I'm starving."

"Is now really the time—" Alastor began.

Tiberius cut him off. "Come on mate, fellow looks like he hasn't eaten in days."

"Fine," Alastor said unwillingly.

"That's because I _haven't _eaten in days," Mark told them. He began to walk up to the shop he'd smelled, but stopped, feeling his pockets. It dawned on him that he didn't have any cash. "Um, sorry, but can I borrow some money? I don't think they'll take mine."

Tiberius dug in his pockets. "All I've got's a few Sickles." He took some out and showed Mark the silver coins, shooting a look at Alastor.

Sighing, Alastor searched his pockets and uncovered a few pounds. He held them out resignedly. "Thanks," Mark said, leaving them to get some food. When he returned, he could tell that Alastor and Tiberius had argued. Trying not to read their memories, he asked, "Mind if we sit for a second?"

"By all means," Tiberius answered, picking a park bench to sit on.

Mark handed Alastor his change, and began to eat. It was hard to take it slowly when he was starving. He distracted himself by watching the passersby. There was a woman whose cat had eaten her lace that morning. There was a young man in a fret because he intended to get engaged that afternoon. The faces paraded by, and Mark read them as easily as he would a magazine. Debt, love, family, school—it all flashed through his mind.

He had just finished eating when his eye caught on a particular man. War veteran, decorated awards, married with a young son—

Mark felt his insides go cold. Ducking his head, he began to ball up his trash.

"There a problem?" Alastor asked.

"Nothing," Mark said, standing up. "Let's go."

"Alright," Alastor said. Mark tossed his trash into a nearby trashcan, glanced over his shoulder at the man and kept walking.

"What are you looking at?" Tiberius asked, glancing back as well.

The man had noticed them. He frowned, and began to follow. "Nothing," Mark answered, though he quickened his pace.

Alastor cast a look over his shoulder. "Being a bit paranoid, I think."

Snorting, Tiberius said, "That's grand, coming from you." Alastor punched him in the shoulder, but did not seem to mind.

"Hey, you!" the man shouted. Mark turned, and saw that the man was pointing at him and jogging towards them. Swallowing tightly, Mark held his place. He tried hard to close his mind. He did not want to see them man's thoughts—he did not want the man to see him.

"Can we help you, sir?" Tiberius asked as the man stopped in front of them. Alastor shifted to stand closer to Mark, as if he was expecting an attack.

The man peered closely into Mark's face, and frowned. "Sorry. Thought you were someone else."

"Don't worry," Mark said, forcing a smile. "Happens all the time." He turned to walk off.

"You look just like my brother," the man said, his tone serious.

Tiberius began to say something, but Alastor hushed him. Mark laughed, but the sound was nervous. "Really? That's odd. Just one of those faces, I guess."

Frowning more, the man said, "He died in the war."

"Oh—erm—sorry," Mark stuttered, kicking himself. He paused long enough to show that he was sincere, then went on, "We've got to be going—running late for something, you see."

The man glanced at Alastor and Tiberius. "Auror business, I guess?"

"More or less," Alastor answered.

"Have a nice day then," said Tiberius.

The man nodded. With a last thoughtful glance at Mark, he turned away and walked on. Slowly Mark felt the tension ease out of his shoulders.

"Sure you don't know him?" Alastor asked.

Mark began to walk in the opposite direction. "Never seen him before in my life."

"Sure seemed ta know you," Tiberius pointed out.

"You heard him," Mark said, glancing at them both. "He mistook me for his dead brother. Course he thought he knew me—I mean, in a sort of grieving way."

"I'm sure," Alastor said, his tone bitter.

Keeping in a sigh, Mark looked ahead. He found himself face to face with the building in the man's memory. "The shop."

"What?" asked Tiberius.

"That's it," Mark said, pointing. It did not look very respectable, and Mark had an instinct that there would be lingerie inside.

"Oh," said Alastor. He stuck his hands in his pockets uncomfortably.

"Well then," said Tiberius. He glanced at Mark. "You first?"

Mark felt his ears burning, but he marched up to the door. Tiberius and Alastor followed, drawing their wands. Mark had just put a hand on the door when a voice behind him spoke.

"I wouldn't go in there."

Tiberius and Alastor turned, but Mark did not. He stared at the doorknob, gritting his teeth. It was the same man.

"Can we help you, mate?" Tiberius asked.

The presence of the man's magic bore into Mark's back. It was weaker than his own, but it was the same—like the familiar scent of an old jacket, or the touch of his mother's leather book. "They're waiting for you," the man said. "Two Aurors aren't going to help. They've just got to gas the room and you'll go into one of those frenzies."

"I know what I'm doing," Mark said over his shoulder. _I've got to get that book back. _

"Oi," said Alastor. "Who exactly are you?"

"If he's who I think he is," the man said slowly, "I'm his great-grandfather." Mark glanced over at the man, already knowing that it was true. Even without reading the fellow's history, he recognized that the man had the same hair as his mother had. "I haven't done this in a while," the man went on. "Am I right?"

"Well. A family affair, tis," Tiberius said aside to Alastor.

Mark looked back at the doorknob. _I've got to do this. I've got to be stronger than myself. Every second I hesitate is a second closer to their deaths._ "I don't want to deal with family history," he said. "I've got to look to the future." He pushed the door open, and went in.

Alastor cast one last look toward the strange man before following Mark. He did not like all these people wandering about claiming to be wizards—time-traveling, mind-reading wizards, no less. There were wizards, and there were Muggles, and really that was all the world needed. Alastor began to think, not for the first time, that he had managed to find himself in a bit of a mess. Still, the man said nothing more, and Alastor followed Mark into the shop. Tiberius hesitated a moment longer, ducking beneath the doorway and holding the door open on reflex, as though waiting for the man to follow.

"You're going to end up like Sir Isaac Newton!" shouted the man.

The door slammed shut then, before anyone had time to respond. Not that Mark looked as though he had intended to answer anyway - he all but ignored the comment, working his way between dusty, moth-eaten racks of clothing and heading towards the back of the shop. Moth-eaten or no, Alastor sincerely hoped nobody had seen them enter this place, because the clothes really were a bit...embarrassing, to say the least. Not that he'd ever say this, but his face had begun to go red again, and that might be a slight giveaway.

"What was that supposed to mean?" Alastor asked instead, determinedly keeping his eyes on the back wall.

Mark shoved aside one of the racks, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

"Newton was the family nut. Last fellow who tried to develop his magic past the mind-reading bit."

"They're _different_ sorts of wizards, apparently," Alastor murmured to Tiberius in explanation.

"He mentioned that," Tiberius replied.

Alastor was about to ask when Tiberius would have had a chance to talk to Mark, and then recalled that he had stormed away from the alley and left the pair of them alone.

"Oh."

Mark had reached the back of the shop by this point, his hands on one of the panels along the wall. He whispered something under his breath, and the wall shuddered and shifted, an opening appearing beneath his hands. Without even bothering to check for traps, Mark ducked through and vanished into the shadows on the other side.

"Suppose we ought to declare our intent to enter?" asked Tiberius.

Alastor, meanwhile, had begun to run a few Detection Charms, because if Mark wanted to go stumbling into hexes, he himself certainly was not. Nothing registered though, no trace of magic or spell work other than what Mark had done to open the door in the first place.

"Not this time," Alastor grumbled. "Not exactly official business, is it?"

As Mark had not bothered to wait for them, Alastor ducked into the entrance and found himself in a dark, narrow staircase. This impaired his speed just slightly, and even when he lit his wand the stairs still trailed away into darkness further on below. Tiberius nearly slipped twice, threatening to send them both rolling, but he managed to catch himself before breaking his own - or Alastor's - neck. The walls on either side felt dry and cold, solid stone. Alastor supposed the staircase led down to a storage basement, or perhaps a bomb shelter. Neither was exactly the sort of place where he liked the idea of having an epic fight.

They found Mark again at the bottom of the stairs, the stone walls falling away and opening into a wide, square room. The floor was stone as well, the walls entirely smooth, and a single yellow bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling. Not even a storage box or scrap of clothing lingered on the floor - if ever the basement had been used, it was certainly abandoned now.

"Looks ta be empty," Tiberius murmured, leaning over Alastor's shoulder for a better look.

The place was eerily quiet, as though they had entered a tomb, the sounds of life from the street above all but muted here beneath the stones. Alastor could not shake the prickling feeling along his spine, some warning sense that ordered him to leave, and quickly.

"This is the place," Mark said, turning slowly to take in the room. "They emptied it out just recently." He paused, as if listening to a sound Alastor couldn't hear. "Can I have my sword back, Tiberius?" Mark asked calmly.

Tiberius blinked, surprised. "Cannae you summon it back yourself?"

"Well-" Mark hesitated. "I mean, I don't think I can."

At precisely that moment, the lightbulb flickered and died, plunging the room into blackness. Alastor's bad feeling proceeded to throw it's arms into the air and shout various _I told you so's_, his hands reaching back to find the solid anchor of the wall he knew had to be nearby.

"_Lumos!"_ Alastor raised his wand, conjuring the light as Tiberius mimicked the motion, conjuring not a light but the same fancy sword Mark had been using the day before.

The room brightened a bit, murky and dark with the bluish light, and Alastor leaned back against the wall, watching and waiting. Mark took his sword from Tiberius, casting an odd glance at Alastor's glowing wand before stepping further out into the room.

"Could he have given you the wrong place?" Alastor asked. "Or, more importantly, could there be a reason he wanted you to find this one?"

"And on that note, did you run tha Detection Charms down here?" Tiberius asked.

Alastor swore, moving his wand through the motions and sending out the charms. At this point, any traps had been sprung, but at least they would know something was coming. To Alastor's great surprise, the scan returned negative once more.

"Now that's odd..."

Mark, who had reached the center of the room, just below the dark lightbulb, began to cough. The noise grated on the silence, passing at first and then in heavy, wracking gasps.

"What's tha matter?" Tiberius asked, frowning down at Mark and clapping him on the back with one hand.

"Do... do you smell that?" Mark pressed his sleeve against his nose, as though trying to block out the air in the basement.

That particular motion gave Alastor grounds for even more concern, because if there was one thing he had learned on the Continent, it was that just because you couldn't smell the gas didn't mean it couldn't kill you. Hastily he conjured a fan and three masks, just in case.

"Having flashbacks yet, mate?" Alastor asked, tossing one of the masks to Tiberius and the other to Mark.

"Reckon I am," Tiberius said. He caught the mask in one hand, holding it ready. "Just like old times."

Mark didn't catch the third mask, didn't actually make any effort at all, and only began to cough again, only this time far worse. His hands started to glow with that odd, bluish tinge again.

"Oi! Mask, use it!" Alastor ordered, gesturing from Mark to the gas mask that lay on the floor beside his feet.

The shout at least seemed to snap Mark out of his latest coughing fit, if only to glance down at his hands.

"Bloody—!" Mark cut off abruptly, looking suddenly desperate as he shifted his gaze first to Tiberius, then to Alastor. "Get out!"

"Loads of good that'll do you," Tiberius murmured.

"I can't stop it!" Mark insisted.

"Then get yourself out of the way, back up to the shop, and we'll handle this," Alastor said.

Tiberius moved to stand closer to Alastor now, both of their wands drawn and at the ready. Mark stayed put though, groaning as he dropped his sword, his hands suddenly glowing bright, blue, nearly white and almost painful to look at.

"_Protego_," Tiberius said. "Just in case."

The "just in case" turned out to have been a very good idea, because seconds later Mark had raised his hands and the blue light was hurtling toward them. The heat in the small basement suddenly increased tremendously, and had Tiberius not conjured that shield Alastor felt fairly confident they would have both been fried.

"Oi! We're on your side here!" Alastor shouted, conjuring a shield of his own now.

Mark stumbled forward half a step, only increasing the strength of whatever spell he was using. Tiberius winced a bit as the blue light struck against his shield.

"Goin' ta have ta knock him out, mate!"

"Can't say I'm too sad to hear that," Alastor growled. He dropped his own shield, leaning out from around Tiberius' and shouting, "_Stupefy!_"

Arm swinging in a wide arc, Mark blocked the spell, much to Alastor's disappointment. The room had grown almost unbearably hot now, the air thick and heavy, and a sound like pipes bending and breaking echoed from somewhere nearby.

"Bugger," Alastor muttered, "that's probably not good."

"Suppose tha building cannae hold?" Tiberius asked, looking as though he already guessed the answer.

"Definitely a problem," Alastor confirmed.

Mark seemed to be losing control of his magic, a blast of light firing not towards Alastor and Tiberius but toward the far wall instead. A gaping hole opened in the stones, and the building shuddered around them. Alastor could not say he fancied the thought of being crushed by a women's dress shop, but the possibility seemed likely.

"What if we...distract him or something?" Tiberius suggested.

"With WHAT?" Alastor demanded.

The shouting drew Mark's attention again, because another wave of blue light roared in their direction. Alastor barely managed to conjure a shield in time, and he put all his energy into keeping the ward up in the face of the onslaught. No easy task, because as Mark's control lessened, the strength of the spell seemed to grow. The magic rebounded away into the walls as Tiberius and Alastor braced themselves behind the shields, tearing into stone and starting a deafening symphony of shattered pipes.

Alastor concluded that he had, in fact, gotten himself into a very large mess. Fighting a crazy fellow in a basement did not rank especially high on his list of priorities, and yet, here he was, doing just that. Tiberius was right though, they would have to distract Mark for any chance of bringing him down. They had him outnumbered, so there was that, and perhaps if they could work in an element of surprise, that always seemed to help...

"I'll distract him," Alastor said quickly, thinking fast and still forming the last pieces of the plan. "You take him down."

"Alastor..." Tiberius shook his head, argument on the tip of his tongue. Alastor had no intention of being talked out of the idea though. His plan would work, because it had to, and that was really all there was to it.

"On my count!" Alastor went on as though Tiberius had raised no objection.

"Fine," Tiberius said, sighing.

Alastor gave a curt nod, drawing a deep breath and steeling himself. They would only have one chance, and if the timing was wrong, he'd be swallowed by a burst of blue fire. Good incentive for a perfect execution, if nothing else.

"One, two...three!"

Tiberius and Alastor broke off the shields at the same time, rolling away in opposite directions. Blue light washed over where they had stood moments before, tearing another hole in the wall. Alastor regained his feet first.

"Look over here then, you mad git!" Alastor shouted as loud as he could. "Been meaning to have a word with you! Didn't anyone tell you, mind reading's bad form?"

That worked, more or less, because Mark abruptly halted the flow of magic and turned on his heels until his gaze settled on Alastor. The bluish light dripped from his hands like water, and Mark's eyes had a glazed, far away look. Alastor was suddenly reminded of pictures he had seen of victims of the _Imperius_ curse, and he resisted an urge to shudder.

"Come on, have a go at me!" Alastor gestured toward himself, shifting into a dueling stance. "Come on! You're not even a real wizard! I'm not afraid of you!"

Mark winced, and for a moment Alastor thought perhaps he had managed to snap him out of whatever haze he was in. Then Mark fired the blue light into the ground near his feet, voice calm as he said, "Minefield."

There was a flash, then, of a wide and muddy field that had once been a forest, dirt and earth churned and torn, broken branches mingling with broken bodies and the twists of barbed wire along the top of what had been a trench. The smell of smoke and ash and earth, the memory of that empty field in France that might as well have been a graveyard. The earth erupting beneath a soldier who took one step too many. _Minefield_ was a word Alastor had hoped to never hear again, and he froze entirely, casting a hasty shield around himself and not daring to move, barely daring to breath. He fought an urge to glance toward Tiberius, lest he give away the plan. Tiberius would have frozen though, would have stopped moving. He had, after all, been along on the last adventure involving a minefield.

The floor began to light up in spots of blue light, flickering to life against the darkness. Mark still had yet to move, hands still hanging towards the ground, bluish light dripping slowly as the building threatened to tumble down upon them.

"A battle that ends in loss," Mark said, barely loud enough to be heard over all the noise.

Alastor frowned, thoroughly baffled at this point. If Mark had not been mad before, he almost certainly was now. He had completely stopped making sense, anyway. Probably just toying with them, the prat. The thought was enough to rouse Alastor's temper again, and he found his voice.

"What you on about? Come on you coward, attack! Don't just sit there and wait!"

Mark merely fired the light into the floor again, and the spots vanished like stars at sunrise.

"Years and years of pain! It never really heals." Mark slumped forward, head hanging. "I've got to get it out!"

This had reached the point of thoroughly ridiculous, in Alastor's opinion. Mark had clearly taken one too many injuries to the head - one more couldn't possibly hurt.

"Alright, if you won't, I will," Alastor said. He pushed away the thoughts of the minefield, the memory of the war. Instead he pictured sunlight on the grounds, shining off the lake, and Minerva McGonagall leaned against him, smiling up at him. _"Expecto Patronum!_"

A burst of silvery light exploded from his wand, forming into an enormous bear that charged towards Mark, snarling and jaws snapping. Just as he had hoped, Mark fired the bluish light toward the Patronus, and the silver and blue collided in a roaring burst of blinding light. Tiberius had been working his way around to Mark's back, and struck at precisely that moment, leaping forward, long legs cutting the distance easily. He tackled Mark from behind, at the same time shoving his wand against Mark's ribs and shouting, "_Dormio!_"

Mark hit the ground beneath Tiberius, head cracking against the floor. The fellow was clearly out cold, but his hands continued to leak with the odd blue light. Tiberius raised up, taking a deep breath and pointing his wand at Mark's hands.

"_Finite_."

The blue light faded instantly, but still Alastor could not quite bring himself to make any sudden movements. Not with that minefield business, and not while the roof kept threatening to cave in.

"All clear?" he asked.

Tiberius conjured a rock and tossed it across the room. Nothing exploded, anyway, which seemed to be a good sign.

"Aye, seems so."

Alastor relaxed then, lowering his wand and running a hand through his hair. Problem solved, mission accomplished, crisis averted, all that sort of thing. Definitely a job well done. Mark might admittedly have been unconscious, but Alastor could not say he minded that too entirely much.

"Nice tackle," Alastor said, grinning as he reached down to help Tiberius to his feet.

"Nice Patronus," Tiberius replied. "How'd you know that'd work?"

"Didn't," Alastor admitted. "Told you I had an idea though."

"Oh, Merlin," Tiberius groaned. "Donnae tell Minerva I let you do that. She'll skin me alive."

"Trust me," Alastor said. "My ideas are always works of genius."

"How could I forget?" Tiberius asked, rolling his eyes.

The building shuddered once more around them, a piece of ceiling cracking away and falling perilously close to Alastor's head.

"Time to go then?" Alastor suggested.

"I'd say," Tiberius agreed.

They reached down, each taking one of Mark's arms and lifting him up between them. Turning on the spot, sincerely hoping the building did not choose now to collapse, they Apparated away, vanishing with a "pop."


	4. Prophecy

A/N - So it turns out that even summer is not without it's busy times, what with Scholar and I both being gainfully employed and whatnot. Fortunately, we decided to knock out the rest of the story all in one go, so it's all finished now, and the last few chapters will all be up shortly. Certainly takes care of the pesky problems that are delays. Now then, when last we left our heroes, there had just been an epic fight scene...

* * *

Mark managed to stay unconscious for nearly two days. There had been some debate as to whether or not they ought to take him to St. Mungo's, but in the end Alastor had insisted that they not. For all practical purposes, Mark was, strictly speaking, a Muggle, and the Healers at St. Mungo's were required to check for things like wands and identification. Alastor had honestly not much felt like smuggling Mark into the hospital, and instead they simply brought him back to the medical wing at the Ministry. Ideally the place was for Aurors and Hitwizards who had been injured on the job, but not quite bad enough to need a visit to the emergency wards over at St. Mungo's. Alastor had brought Mark here after the last incident, and saw no reason he couldn't do the same now. Tiberius stopped arguing eventually, and they managed to con some of the younger healers into treating Mark (on the grounds that he was a witness in an ongoing investigation). Fortunately, no one had asked any questions, and two days later all seemed to be going well. Exceptt of course, for the part about Mark still being unconscious.

That, and the small fact that although Mark had yet to wake up, his magic kept deciding to randomly engage. The healers had yet to determine what caused this problem, and had only really figured out that the bluish light burned anything on contact. Being that Alastor and Tiberius had already realized this thanks to personal experience, they were not especially surprised. The healers made frequent visits to make sure Mark hadn't managed to set himself or the room on fire, and Alastor came by during his free hours, usually dragged by Tiberius.

In fact, at present Alastor found himself leaned against the wall outside the room, hands in his pockets as his stomach rumbled. Tiberius stood at the observation window not far away, frowning in at Mark.

"Do you suppose he'll be alright?"

"You didn't hit him that hard," Alastor said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

"I donnae think it was all me," Tiberius said quietly.

Tiberius had voiced that opinion several times, that perhaps Mark's odd magic had more to do with his prolonged unconsciousness than Tiberius or Alastor had. The idea seemed reasonable enough, in Alastor's opinion. Mark had been out for a while after doing small amounts of magic, logic would suggest that he'd be out for longer after using even more magic.

"Fair enough," Alastor replied. "Did you, ah...did you happen to hear what he was saying?"

He had not yet had a chance to ask Tiberius about Mark's odd words during the fight. For a moment, he was worried Tiberius had forgotten, or else had not heard at all. The words had been troubling him, the tone and phrase and the glazed, far-away look in Mark's eyes.

"Aye," Tiberius said at last. "What you suppose it was?"

"Threats, words...the ramblings of a loony?" Alastor shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest. Rubbish, but I only remember parts of it anyway."

"Same," Tiberius agreed. "Although...you know what it did sound a bit like?"

"Hmm?"

"Some sort of prophecy."

Alastor snorted, fixing his friend with a long look.

"I thought you grew out of that Divination rubbish."

"Maybe I did, and maybe I dinnae, but either way, still sounded like one," Tiberius explained, still yet to look away from the window. "Donny could probably tell us what it means."

"Aye, he probably could, if we remembered it," Alastor muttered. "Doesn't help that Mark's unconscious either."

"Now, that's not entirely true. Don could look at one of his memories. Or ours..." Tiberius suggested, arching an eyebrow at Alastor.

Alastor did not hesitate to shake his head in firm refusal. He had had just about enough of people sorting through his personal thoughts.

"He's not pulling anything out of my head. Not this time."

Tiberius did not seem too entirely surprised by the response, merely shifting his stance and keeping his attention the window. Alastor ignored the smirk his friend also suddenly looked to be wearing.

"You can chat with him about it when he gets here. When's tha healer coming?"

"They come through every few hours. Keep having to deal with that blue mess," Alastor answered.

Tiberius cast another sidelong look at him, this one plainly of surprise. Alastor scowled and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

"I certainly haven't been here. Don't give me that look. The healers, they come report to me."

"Do they?"

"Yes. Told them I was the lead Auror on the case. It's done wonders for their obedience."

"I'm sure."

Alastor settled back into his place against the wall, ignoring his stomach as it growled yet again and wondering exactly how long he would have to wait for lunch. A sharp elbow from Tiberius drew his attention, and also caused some slight pain in his ribs.

"He's awake," Tiberius said hurriedly, gesturing toward the window.

Alastor leaned forward, glancing into the room. Sure enough, Mark had opened his eyes at last and begun to cautiously push himself upright.

"Don't think we're clear to go in..." Alastor muttered, watching for a flicker of blue from Mark's palms.

Tiberius simply waved, tapping at the glass with his opposite hand. Mark did not notice them at first, and only gave a slight nod in acknowledgment when he did. In fact, he seemed more determined to get away from the bed, based on the fact that he had swung his legs over the edge. The moment he tried to stand though, his legs collapsed, and Mark went tumbling to the floor in a heap. Alastor glanced down the hall and back, figuring that someone ought to go pick him up off the ground.

"No healers. Come on, in we go."

Alastor held the door for Tiberius, who greeted Mark with a cheery smile.

"Glad ta see you're not actually dead."

Mark leaned back against the side of the bed, sitting where he had fallen on the floor.

"Thanks."

"Let's get you up then," Alastor muttered. He waved Tiberius over, and the pair of them lifted Mark beneath the shoulders, maneuvering him back onto the bed once more. Mark grunted and winced a few times, but for the most part he seemed to be alright.

"Take it you're not feeling much better?" Tiberius guessed.

Mark merely rubbed his head, probably feeling the knot that the collision with the floor had caused. He dropped his arms with a sigh, glancing down at his hands as he said, "I'm sorry."

"For?" Alastor asked, because really he could think of several things Mark could legitimately be apologizing for.

"Putting us all in danger," Mark replied.

Not the apology Alastor would have most liked to hear, but a suitable one nonetheless.

"We're not very often _not_ in danger, ta be honest," Tiberius said. Alastor had to admit, that statement was quite true.

"I didn't realize when that man mentioned the gas, he was serious. I thought he was just trying to scare me off. 'Don't mess with changing the future'- that sort of thing," Mark explained.

"Next time, perhaps you ought to listen to fellows like that," Alastor suggested.

Mark prodded at his own side, wincing again at the contact.

"Did I burn myself?"

"Might have. Probably," Tiberius amended.

"Few things you didn't burn, really," Alastor said.

"It's called a Scinnlác—a frenzy—when I go into that," Mark began. "Sir Isaac Newton was famous for his—though they didn't make him use magic. He didn't have enough for that."

Alastor had not been expecting another explanation, nor had he been expecting one quite like that.

"Ah...right," Tiberius said, nodding along.

"What caused it then?" Alastor asked.

"Whenever I come into contact with any man-made sort of drug or medication, it's like—it makes the magic go wild. I don't know—over-stimulation?" Mark considered the word, then shrugged. "And I've got to get it out or... well, I don't know what will happen if I don't. It feels like I'll burn up from the inside."

"That's...odd," was all Alastor could think to say.

He had never heard of a wizard having any sort of trouble like that before. Well, actually, he felt confident he could make a fairly humorous joke with those last couple of phrases, but that wouldn't precisely help at present. Fortunately, Tiberius seemed to be thinking the same thing, and they grinned at each other for a moment. If Mark realized what they were laughing about, he did not seem to care, and instead simply moved the conversation along.

"I don't remember much of what happened."

"Well." Alastor took a deep breath to swallow the last chance of laughter. "There was a lot of blue light."

"And a minefield," Tiberius added.

"You also started talking a bit funny."

Mark had been staring at the blanket, but at that he glanced sharply upward, eyes narrowing at Alastor.

"Funny in what way?"

"Sounded like..." Alastor supposed he ought to at least pitch Tiberius' idea, because as much as he hated to bring in anything Divination related, it seemed like a valid point. "Like you were maybe...prophesying or something."

Tiberius snapped his fingers and said, "With some part about a battle ending in loss."

Mark had been about to answer Alastor, but he paused to glance back at Tiberius.

"Every battle ends in loss, one way or another."

Alastor had begun tapping his foot against the floor though, thinking, trying to recall, Tiberius' words having jogged his memory, or at least begun to do so.

"There was more to it though..."

"Why donnae we just let Don take a look at tha memory?" Tiberius suggested.

"What?" asked Mark, caught entirely off-guard.

"He wants to let Donald take a look at what happened in the Pensieve. It's a way to look at thoughts," Alastor added in answer to Mark's confused expression.

"I've never had that done before. I don't know how well it would go over," Mark said.

"Nothing serious," Tiberius said, shrugging. "Just sort of..."

He trailed off, tugging his wand from his pocket and moving slowly closer to Alastor.

"Don't you dare," Alastor growled, fixing Tiberius with a glare.

From his place on the bed, Mark had begun to look curious, which for some reason irked Alastor immensely. His first aim proven useless, Tiberius simply rolled his eyes, placing his wand against his own temple instead. He closed his eyes, and after a moment drew the wand away, a silvery string floating along after it.

"Then you take tha memory," Tiberius gestured toward the silvery wisps, "drop it in tha Pensieve, and you can...watch tha memory."

"You can observe what happened. Even if you weren't there," Alastor explained.

Mark considered this for a moment, then asked, "Would just Donald see it, or would all of us?"

"We could all use it," Alastor replied.

"I don't know," Mark said, gaze falling to the blanket once more.

"Could we at least try?" Tiberius asked, conjuring a vial with a flick of his wand. He was apparently determined not to take no for an answer.

"If it was a prophecy, maybe it would be better unknown," Mark said slowly.

"They like to keep track of them anyway," Alastor answered. "Besides, it probably wasn't."

"Prophecies never help anyone until they're over. A lot of time they make for a mess of misinterpretation," Mark replied.

"I wouldnae say that's true," Tiberius argued. He looked to be on the verge of lapsing into one of his pro-Divination speeches, at least until Alastor stepped on his foot. "And you clearly havenae seen tha hall in tha Department of Mysteries. Not many wizards share your opinion."

"Millions of prophecies," Alastor confirmed. "Very odd place."

"I don't want to donate mine," Mark said. "I don't think it's even valid."

"Haven't got to donate yours," Alastor answered. "Just trying to see what happened. Besides, what if it applies to that stupid book of yours?"

Mark hesitated only a fraction of a second before replying. "Fine."

"Excellent!" said Tiberius. He crossed the room, raising the empty vial in one hand and his wand in the other. "Ready?"

"Sure," said Mark, though he sounded doubtful at best.

"He's got to be the one to do it, Tiberius," Alastor reminded his friend.

"Oh, right." Tiberius studied Mark for a moment. "Tis quite simple. Think of tha memory, keep it up front in your mind, and then just...pull it out."

Tiberius offered his wand to Mark, who took it slowly. Alastor's fingers went to his own wand out of reflex, sincerely hoping Mark did not decided to do something stupid like try and hex Tiberius.

"Any memory?" Mark asked.

"Ideally tha memory of tha fight," Tiberius replied.

"Right."

Mark paused, frowning in concentration for a moment before he pressed the wand point against his temple. He closed his eyes, and they stayed closed even as he began to draw the wand away, silvery strands emerging as he did. Tiberius lifted the vial and took his wand back as soon as Mark had finished, saying what sounded like "Excellent" over and over. Mark simply watched, hands falling back into his lap. He still did not look especially thrilled to have given into these proceedings, but he had at least stopped arguing.

The hall filled with noise all of a sudden, a rush of people and chatter, and somewhere in the distance a door opened and shut. All this preluded the arrival of Donald himself, who smelled strongly of cigarettes as he entered the small room. Alastor wrinkled his nose in distaste but said nothing, even when Donald raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Finally awake, I see," Donald said, turning his attention to Mark. "I'm glad these two didn't manage to injure you too severely."

"As I recall, it was the other way around," Alastor grumbled. "We were defending ourselves."

"Alastor's right, actually," Mark admitted.

Alastor grinned proudly, and Donald cast an intrigued look back in Mark's direction.

"Don't say things like that, it only encourages him."

"Have you been able to translate the book at all?" Mark asked, as though Donald had not spoken.

Donald paused, taken aback. Alastor would have taken the chance to explain the finer points of polite conversation to Mark, but Donald merely narrowed his eyes and glanced warily from Mark to Alastor.

"Turns out he's been reading our minds," Alastor announced. "Ever so polite, isn't it?"

"It's not mind reading, exactly," Mark repeated his earlier argument, but none of the wizards seemed to be accepting of this suggestion.

"Bit of a stretch, that," Tiberius muttered.

"Hush, Tiberius," Donald said, straightening his glasses and beginning to look far too curious for Alastor's taste. "What do you mean?"

Mark took a deep, steadying breath, then launched into his most lengthy explanation yet.

"Well, the long and short of it is that I'm a decedent of the wizard Merlin, King Arthur's mage, and I can use magic but not in the same way you wizards do, and when I look at people I can know their histories in a glance whether or not I want to-which is how I knew about the copy you made of my book."

At the conclusion of this, Alastor rolled his eyes and fully intended to ask which mad house Mark had escaped from. Instead he took another elbow to the ribs from Tiberius, and was forced to keep silent for the time being.

"And I also time traveled here. From 2010," Mark added after a moment.

"All sorts of special, isn't he?" Alastor grumbled.

Donald processed all this information, surveying Mark like he was a puzzle of some sort.

"You do realize, there is no historical record of any genealogy of Merlin?"

"There's one in my book," Mark answered.

"Is there indeed?" Donald asked. "And where might I find this?"

Mark hesitated before answering this time. "Well, it's the last couple of pages."

Donald turned, apparently intent on going to investigate this claim on the spot. Alastor could not believe a smart fellow like Donald would fall for this rubbish, and grabbed him by the sleeve of his robes before he could get away.

"Tiberius wants you to take a look at something in your Pensieve."

Donald blinked, raising his eyebrows. "I don't exactly carry it in my pocket."

"If it's in your office, we can get it," Tiberius offered.

Alastor had never known Donald to turn down a chance to use the Pensieve, and this time proved no exception. Donald shrugged, conjuring a key ring with a flick of his wrist, and tossing the keys to Alastor in the same smooth motion.

"Alright. But if I see one parchment out of place, I'll lock you both in the Time chamber. Again."

"Time chamber?" Mark asked.

"Where they study time. Lots of ruddy clocks and things. Time turners, matter of fact," Alastor explained as he pushed the door open.

"All tha ticking gets ta you after awhile," Tiberius said.

"Ah," was Mark's only reply. Then the door had shut again, and Alastor and Tiberius set off for the Department of Mysteries.

As Alastor and Tiberius hurried out the door, Donald turned back to Mark and leaned against the wall casually. His eyes were still alight with curiosity. Mark knew that of the wizards, Donald was the one that would be the most likely to believe him. "So...why exactly do they want the Pensieve?" Donald asked.

Spreading his hands, Mark tried to explain. "When I come in contact with drugs—gas, alcohol, medication—I go into this, um... magic frenzy. Scinnlác is the Old English term. It happened to us two days ago. They think that I prophesied while I was in the frenzy, and they want you to look at it."

Donald began to frown. "Do you remember any of it?"

_Smoke and ashes and a deafening ring in his ears._ Mark winced. "Yes, I think I remember most of it."

The wizard's eyes were serious, and he spoke softly, "Prophecies, seeing the future... that's dangerous business."

"I know," Mark answered. Snapshots of Donald's memories seeped into his head: _A spread of cards. The hanged man. The tower._ Mark could remember the voice of someone, shouting a name as the debris fell. "I think—I think it has to do with Alastor."

Interest and concern crept into Donald's face. He stepped from his place at the wall, asking, "What makes you say that?"

"The first day I met him, I had—well—when I was looking at his history to see if Hogwarts existed I saw something that hadn't happened to him yet," Mark tried to explain. "He was drinking heavily—Tiberius was there. During the frenzy, he caught my attention, and—I just remember these flashes, about a field and explosion and a pain that doesn't end." Motioning towards his head, Mark winced a little at the memory. "It's hard to describe. I don't know if it's best for them to see my memory of it, though."

For a moment, Donald stood with a finger against his chin, thinking. "What you have to remember, first and foremost, is that the future is never certain," he said, pointing at the ceiling like a professor would. "We can see possibilities, probabilities. And I do have to agree. Sometimes... it's better not to know what lies ahead."

A solemn look crossed Don's face, and he fell silent. _News. Bad news. Black ravens against a white sky. Masks and cloaks and an old graveyard. An emerald sign, haunting and hanging in the sky, skull and snake entwined. _

"I understand," said Mark quietly.

They remained in silence for a few minutes, Donald's finger back on his chin and his eyes clouded with thought. Rousing himself, he looked up. "Would you object to allowing me to seeing the memory, if I promise not to show Alastor or Tiberius?" Donald asked.

"That would be alright with me."

"I appreciate that. Now, did you give Tiberius the correct memory, or does he have a false one in that vial?"

"It's the right one," Mark said. "I don't know how I would have gotten a false one."

Don flashed a smile. "There are ways. Alright, I'll take care of it then."

"Okay," Mark said. At that moment, Tiberius pushed opened the door. He entered the room backwards, Alastor behind him, helping him to carry a large bowl between. As they sat it down on a table at the end of his bed, Mark leaned to get a better look. The Pensieve was a large bowl made of stone, with runes and symbols carved around the rim. At present, the bowl was empty.

"Weren't sure if we could use magic to carry it," Alastor said, rubbing his back.

"And that thing's too bloody heavy," Tiberius expounded.

"Now you see why I don't move it," Donald said with an eyebrow lifted. He stepped to the Pensieve and held out his hand towards Tiberius while he leaned over the bowl. "The vial, if you please?"

Tiberius took it out of his coat pocket and put it in Donald's hand. Opening it carefully, Donald poured the silvery liquid into the bowl. The wisps of memory spread to fill the Pensieve, glowing softly against the stones. He gently prodded it with his wand, murmuring all the while. His eyes were sharp, but distant.

"Any time you're ready, then," Alastor said, crossing his arms.

Mark knew that all he had to do was watch Donald, and he would see whatever the wizard was seeing. Color had begun to fade from Donald's face, and he bent closer and closer to the bowl, his glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. The visions he saw stirred in the back of Mark's head, like a memory he couldn't quite recall. Mark dragged his eyes away, staring at the wall. He did not need to see the prophecy again.

Abruptly, Donald straightened. "Seems there's nothing here."

Mark glanced at Tiberius and Alastor. Tiberius was slack jawed, but Alastor's eyes narrows suspiciously as he watched Donald. "Tell me you're kidding?" Tiberius asked incredulously.

Donald pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm afraid there's naught here but flashes of light and a certain someone's Patronus charging in at the end."

"So it's nothing to worry about?" Mark asked.

"Don't mock my Patronus," Alastor cut in. "Better than your ruddy owl."

Donald ignored Alastor, turning instead to Mark. "Nothing at all, I'm sure. Though I think"–he returned the liquid to the vial, and tucked it into his robes—"I'll hang on to this. Just for... a closer look at your magic."

Understanding perfectly, Mark nodded. "Alright."

"What, tha funny blue stuff?" Tiberius asked.

Sighing, Donald said, "Yes, the funny blue stuff. Did they teach you those descriptive words in Auror training?"

Crossing his arms, Tiberius muttered something angrily. Alastor gestured to the Pensieve. "What're we supposed to do with this great thing, then?"

"Well, as I'll be doing work the rest of the day, you can bring it back to my office," answered Donald absentmindedly.

Alastor grumbled, lifting the Pensieve himself. When Tiberius stepped forward to help, Alastor shook his head. "'s fine, I've got it."

"What about Mark?" Tiberius asked, glancing back at him as they headed to the door.

Donald looked over his shoulder as he pushed the door open. "I trust you'll not be going anywhere just yet?" he asked.

"No, I need to rest for a bit," Mark answered.

"We'll be back in the morning then," said Alastor, going through the door.

"Alright. Thank you," Mark called after them. As soon as they were gone, he lay down and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but it was a long time before he could fall asleep.


	5. A Friendly Conversation

Just because Mark had decided to wake up again did not mean they were any closer to finding the book. In fact, they were really right back where they had started - men in black cloaks wanted Mark and the book for some reason, and that was all any of them knew. In between rounds of paperwork, however, Tiberius had snuck over to Alastor's desk and made the careful observation that perhaps they ought to be having a chat with one of the men they had captured. Alastor saw no reason why not, and rather liked the idea that he and Tiberius could manage to get the proper information where Mark had not. With some pretense of taking a long break, Alastor and Tiberius left the busy Auror office and took the lift down to the holding cells.

The cells occupied a part of Level Ten, the same floor where the Wizengamot met in large, round courtrooms. Alastor supposed the location had been designed for convenience, if nothing else. The door to the area was warded against anyone not given clearance, but fortunately an Auror badge each allowed both Tiberius and Alastor to pass through. The entry area had been painted a dull purplish color, bright lights glowing from charmed globes on the ceiling. A wooden desk occupied the center of the room, flanked by heavy doors on either side. The clerk at the desk glanced up at them, lowering his magazine.

"Can I help you?"

"Aurors Moody and Kirk," Alastor said, tugging his badge from his pocket. "We're here to speak to one of the prisoners."

"I wasn't aware of any ongoing investigations involving the Aurors," the clerk replied.

"We arrested him for a disturbance. Suspicious activity. Just need ta ask some routine questions," Tiberius explained.

The clerk considered this, and for a moment Alastor was afraid they were going to have to hex the man. After a moment though, the clerk gave a shrug and put aside his magazine, retrieving a large book from beneath the desk.

"And who is it you wanted to see?"

"Ah..." Alastor paused. He had no idea what any of the men's names might be. "The fellow who came in wearing black robes."

"My records show that three such prisoners were brought in," the clerk answered, raising an eyebrow. "Could you be more specific?"

"If you could refresh our memories," Tiberius suggested. "We take a lot of cases, you see. Very busy. Lots of suspects."

Alastor nodded in agreement to this, and though the clerk looked doubtful he did not bother to argue.

"We have a Theodore Galvin, a Bernard Bloom, and a Robert Marsh."

Tiberius glanced to Alastor, who sorted through the names, picked up on nothing remotely familiar, and simply chose one at random.

"Marsh," Alastor said, snapping his fingers and trying to act as though that was who had been meaning all along. "Him. Yes. That one."

"I'll have Mr. Marsh moved to one of the interview rooms," the clerk said. He shut the record book with a dull thud and rose from his seat, a set of keys jangling on his belt. "Wait here, please."

The clerk passed through the door on the left, leaving Alastor and Tiberius standing alone in the waiting room. So far so good at least. No one had challenged them yet anyway, and that was probably for the best. Alastor did not imagine the senior Aurors would take kindly to finding out that someone had been staging an imaginary investigation just to talk to a prisoner.

"Donnae suppose that's tha same fellow Mark tried ta talk ta?" Tiberius asked after a moment.

"Rubbish. Didn't think of that," Alastor muttered.

Still, whoever Mark had spoken to or... mind-read or whatever he had done, the man had never ever actually seen Alastor or Tiberius, so there was no real danger of recognition. Now, once they started asking questions, that might be a bit of a giveaway.

"If he's the one who sent us into that trap, I think we'll be having an interesting conversation," Alastor predicted.

Tiberius called that particular fellow a few foul names that Alastor emphatically agreed with, breaking off his tirade just as the clerk returned. He stepped behind the desk, retrieving a parchment and handing it to Tiberius.

"His forms. Mr. Marsh is ready, and you'll find him in Room 6," the clerk said, pointing to the door on the right. "Have fun."

The remark seemed to be more general than any actual wish for them to have fun, but Alastor grinned back at the clerk as he followed Tiberius through the door.

"Oh, I intend to."

The door swung shut, closing with a loud bang that echoed down the empty hall. Alastor winced as the locks slid into place and the wards re-engaged, sealing them into the hall. Globes of light floated along the ceiling, coming perilously close to colliding with Tiberius' head more than once. All the doors along the hall wore brass numbers that glowed in the dimness, counting in time with the footsteps against the checkerboard floor. Room 6 rose up on the left, another heavy door set into the wall.

"Strategy?" Tiberius asked, reaching for the handle.

"The usual," Alastor said. "And we're looking for the book."

"Worried about motive?"

"Eh." Alastor shrugged, considering the importance of knowing why exactly these men wanted the book. Since Mark seemed to already be fairly confident of the reasons, asking Robert Marsh about them seemed unnecessary. Still, no reason to limit the conversation. "Why not?"

Tiberius grinned for a moment then, an eager expression that Alastor matched with a grin of his own. Then shoulders were squared and the grins vanished, replaced by cool faces and hard eyes. This was Auror business, after all, and they ought to look serious, no matter how fun interrogations might actually be. Tiberius twisted the handle and pushed the door inward, stepping out of the way to allow Alastor to enter.

The small room had the same purplish walls and checkerboard floors, a metal table charmed to the floor in the center. On the opposite side of the table sat the man Alastor presumed to be Robert Marsh, a round-faced fellow with short hair who kept fidgeting with the arms of his chair. Tiberius shut the door again, hard enough that the noise echoed and Marsh jumped a bit in his seat. Alastor bent over the table, palms pressed against the cool metal.

"Mr. Mash, we've got a few questions for you."

"I can't imagine why," Marsh replied, sounding far calmer than he looked. "I'm here as a mistake, you see."

"Are you now?" Tiberius asked. He leaned against the back wall, face vanishing into the shadows that wrapped around the edges of the room. "And why's that?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time," Marsh said. "It's the funniest story, really..."

Marsh trailed off, glancing uncertainly from Alastor to Tiberius and back again. Alastor motioned for him to continue.

"I love a good story. Let's have it then."

"Ah, well..." Marsh shifted in his seat, fingers drumming on the armrests. "I was out running some errands. For the wife. And... and these fellows, they were... there was a scuffle. I was trying to get them to stop, because somebody had a wand out, and I didn't want the Muggles to see. But I must have been hit with something, or slipped, because everything went all fuzzy and when I woke up I was here."

Marsh laughed nervously then, but Alastor and Tiberius were soon laughing outright. Honestly, that had to have been one of the worst stories he had ever heard. Marsh mistook their sudden humor though, laughing as well and beginning to relax. Or at least he had been, until Alastor abruptly stopped laughing and pounded his palm against the table. The noise brought a sudden, staggering halt to all the laughter, and Marsh's eyes widened.

"You were out running errands for your wife, you said?" Alastor asked quietly.

"Buying groceries, yes!" Marsh insisted, nodding emphatically.

"Then where's your wedding ring?"

Marsh's eyes went even wider now, and his fingers stilled against the chair.

"T-they took it when I got here."

"No," Tiberius said. He had pulled out Marsh's form and was presently shaking his head at whatever page he happened to be reading. "No records of any rings. Care ta try again?"

Marsh did not seem to care to try again, which suited Alastor just fine because that meant they would have to coax him into talking some other way. Not to mention, he had found that when suspects were persuaded into talking, they were far more likely to tell the truth, at least most of the time, and especially on the occasions where they seemed to be afraid of bodily harm.

"Alright, Mr. Marsh, here's what I think." Alastor reached into his pocket and withdrew the file he had been keeping on Mark. The original disturbance forms had been joined by several pages of notes and a picture of Mark the Healers had taken upon his arrival in their care. Mark was unconscious in the picture, but he was still recognizable, and Alastor slapped the photograph down onto the table in front of Marsh.

"I think you know this fellow. And I think you kidnapped him and held him hostage and took part of his property. I also think that you helped set a trap for him, and in doing so made a valiant, but failed, effort to kill him and two Aurors. Now-" Alastor took a seat in the chair opposite Marsh, turning it backwards so that his arms rested across the top, "-what have you to say to that?"

All Marsh did was eye Alastor shrewdly, suddenly infinitely more calm than he had been moments ago. The usual progression of events would have suggested that Marsh should have become _more_ nervous when Alastor started making accusations, not the opposite. Alastor began to suspect that perhaps the nerves had been nothing more than an act all along. Oh, this would be very interesting.

"Am I to assume that you were the two unfortunate Aurors?" Marsh asked.

"Not so unfortunate, really," Tiberius replied. "Still alive, at least."

Marsh muttered something under his breath that sounded like "pity," and Alastor was on his feet again in an instant, leaning over the table and glowering at Marsh, eye to eye.

"Need to improve your traps," Alastor growled. "Bit easy to escape, that one. Not much of a challenge."

"I'll be sure and keep that in mind," Marsh answered.

Tension crackled between them, the globe on the ceiling suddenly glowing brighter and washing out Marsh' face in harsh light. Alastor pushed the picture of Mark toward Marsh again.

"What do you want with him?"

Marsh lifted the picture this time, studying Mark's face. He smiled then, a tight, vicious look that was not at all friendly.

"Do you have any idea who he is?"

"Mark Wright, age twenty-one, probably some sort of escaped mental patient," Alastor said, counting on his fingers. "Why?"

"He's important," Marsh said. "Very important."

Alastor rolled his eyes, suspecting this was about to turn into another conversation explaining why Mark was actually one of Merlin's secret descendants.

"And I shall ask again, a bit louder this time, WHY?"

"He's the last of Merlin's line," Marsh whispered, as though sharing some grave secret. "And he doesn't belong here."

This had really just grown about as mental as Alastor was willing to allow.

"No, I'm sure he bloody well does not."

Alastor rounded the table and had hold of Marsh before the man ever realized what was happening. In seconds, Alastor had the man's arm twisted behind his back and his face pressed against the table. The collision resulted in a loud bang that shook the table, and Marsh began shouting and struggling. Alastor merely tightened his hold and twisted his arm a bit further, and after a moment Marsh went silent. Tiberius stepped away from the wall at last, taking the seat that Alastor had vacated. He still looked calm, fingers steepled as though there was nothing odd about conversing with a man Alastor had pinned to the table.

"Now, Mr. Marsh, you're beginning ta get on my nerves, and I dare say, my friend's as well."

Alastor pushed Marsh's head against the table a bit harder, just in case there were any doubts as to his annoyance.

"So, perhaps you could explain ta us why you think Mark here is related ta dear old Merlin," Tiberius suggested. "Preferably soon."

"Aurors shouldn't even be involved!" Marsh shouted, though the words were a bit muffled. "If you hadn't showed up at the house, this wouldn't even be an issue."

"So the disturbance tipped you off?" Alastor guessed. When Marsh refused to answer, Alastor knocked his head against the table again.

"Not tha head, mate," Tiberius said. "Makes 'em forget things."

"Ah. Right."

"You call it a disturbance," Marsh muttered. "It was a shock wave! All that power in one place."

"But Auror Moody here turned up, and you dinnae get him," Tiberius concluded.

Marsh nodded, twisting to try and free himself again, to no avail. "We caught up with him later though. We had to. Just to make sure. And we were _right_."

"Right mental, that's what all you lot are," Alastor muttered. "What've you done with his book then?"

"Awful good luck he's got, Aurors helping him, coming to the rescue. We'd have had him in the alley. Should have had him at the shop."

"Yes, thank you so much, for the lovely surprise that was the shop," Alastor said. "Now where's the ruddy book?"

Marsh did not seem to really be listening though, not anymore. He was laughing again, and rambling on.

"They translated the book. Parts of it. But we need him to make it work. Mark is the key."

"Because he's tha descendant?" Tiberius guessed, frowning at Marsh now. "And what would you do with this book?"

"Power," Marsh said, the word coming in a gasp of breath. "The book is power."

"Right." Alastor released his hold and stepped away, allowing Marsh to tumble to the floor. "Power-hungry, demented, dark wizards. And here I thought my week had begun to return to normal."

"Just think what could be done with the key to Merlin's power. We could save the wizarding world," Marsh insisted.

"Wizarding world doesn't need saving today, I've already seen to that," Alastor muttered. "And if that was a recruitment speech, it was rubbish."

Marsh did not move from his place on the floor, though his hands gestured wildly as he spoke.

"You're both sensible wizards. Doesn't the pollution of our world concern you?"

Alastor and Tiberius glanced at each other, then back at Marsh, trying to decide if he meant what they thought he had.

"You another one of those pureblood nutters?" Tiberius asked.

"Nothing mad about trying to preserve your kind," Marsh replied.

"_Your_ kind could do with being a little less common," Alastor said.

He aided Marsh in returning to his seat, lifting the man easily into the chair and pushing him solidly into place. Alastor had never had much patience for anyone trying to claim some sort of pureblood superiority. He knew plenty of Muggleborn witches and wizards who had quite some talent, Donald Pritchett among them. There was no reason purebloods and half-bloods and everyone else could not get along, and people like Marsh only managed to stir up unwanted trouble.

"Mr. Marsh," Tiberius said, face solemn again. "We're arresting you for the assault and subsequent kidnapping of Mark Wright, anything you say-"

"You can't!" Marsh cried.

"Did you forget the part where you just confessed?" Alastor demanded, crossing his arms and scowling down at Marsh.

"I...I wasn't..."

"Unless you're going ta decided ta be helpful," Tiberius said slowly, "and tell us something we havenae already heard, you're back to tha cells."

"We could probably land you a ticket to Azkaban, if you're lucky," Alastor growled.

Marsh sagged back in the chair, fingers drumming absently against the arm once more. Alastor wanted to smack the man's hand away, but he knew he had probably reached the acceptable level of contact for one day.

"Where's the bloody book?" Alastor asked, voice still dangerously low.

"I obviously haven't got it!" Marsh snapped.

"Merlin, I'd never have known," Tiberius replied. "Who does?"

"I don't know!"

"Ruddy useless, you are," Alastor muttered, kicking Marsh's chair for good measure. "Come on then, let's not waste any more time."

Tiberius rose from his seat, following Alastor to the door silently. Neither of them looked back at Marsh, and the man did not speak again until Alastor had his hand on the door.

"They won't stop, you know."

"Who won't?" Alastor asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Your little club?"

"There's more of us than you realize. Any time he uses his powers, they'll know. And they'll find him," Marsh warned, still washed-out and ghostlike beneath the bright globe. The words and the image were both fairly haunting.

"Yes. Thank you." Alastor pushed the door open. "Any other sinister comments you'd like to make?"

Marsh's only reply was to make a few unpleasant remarks about the Auror Department at large and Tiberius and Alastor in particular. Alastor and Tiberius simply raised their eyebrows and waved rude gestures at the suspect as they backed out into the hall. The door swung shut again, locks and wards falling into place.

"Odd fellow," Tiberius declared.

"I think that's an understatement," Alastor replied.

"Donnae suppose he was much help," Tiberius said, running both hands through his hair. "Dinnae seem ta know much."

Alastor set to pacing back and forth in the small stretch of space in front of the door, running back over Marsh's words.

"That'd make sense though, if all the underlings knew everything, that'd be a liability. One's arrested, they make him talk, he tells everything."

"Good point," Tiberius said. "But what do we do now?"

They could talk to the other two men, Galvin and Bloom, but Alastor suspected that they would be about as helpful as Marsh. Really now would be the opportune time to go waltzing into the secret hideout of these mad, black-robed men, only nobody seemed to know where the hideout actually was. What they needed was to draw out the black-robed men, bait them into the open, force them to show their hand, show the book...

Alastor stopped pacing as the idea struck him, turning on his heels to face Tiberius.

"Got it."

"What?"

"I have a plan," Alastor elaborated. "To get that stupid book. Come on, I'll explain on the way."


	6. Battle in the Graveyard

Mark ran his hand over his smooth jaw, checking the mirror to be sure he had not missed a spot. Even with the shower, shave and clean clothes, he still looked like a homeless person. _Probably the eyes_, he guessed. His eyes were bruised with exhaustion from the past couple of days. The new clothes and clean skin had served to make him feel a little more comfortable, at least. But it would take a lot more for that desperate, half mad look to leave his eyes. Until he had the book back, he would have no peace.

Alastor entered as Mark ran the towel over his jaw one more time. "The clothes seem to fit," he remarked to Tiberius as he came in. They had brought Mark the stuff earlier that morning.

Crossing his arms and smiling a bit, Alastor said, "Think we've figured out how to solve your problem."

"How's that?" Mark asked, folding the towel and turning towards them. They explained that they had spoken with one of his kidnappers, and found out that if Mark used magic the men would be able to trace him to that point.

"They were planning to trap you the whole time," Tiberius said. "So we were thinking perhaps we ought to return the favor."

_How did they get so much out of him, when I completely missed the important parts?_ Mark wondered, glancing from one to another. But Mark had had so little practice searching someone's mind for specific information, it was likely that he had done it wrong on his captor and missed huge chunks of information. On the other hand, they had been trained in what they did. He thought over what they had told him, and guessed, "You want me to bait them into a trap?"

Alastor's rather smug expression turned annoyed. "Try to sound a little more enthusiastic about it."

"Excuse me," Mark said. He cleared his throat. "You want _me_ to bait _them_ into a trap?"

"Still not the ideal tone, but close enough. Yes."

Mark thought for a moment, weighing the possibilities. "Alright," he said. "I think I'm rested enough to give it a shot."

"Perfect," Tiberius said with a grin.

They took Mark to a graveyard in London, and set up a few spells. Tiberius explained that these spells would act as barriers, making it so the men would be unable to transport themselves away using magic. Mark watched the process with interest, thinking that perhaps once he got home he'd pick up a copy of _Harry Potter_ after all. His uncle had always kept him away from the books, supposedly due to religious objections, but Mark suspected that it had really been to keep thoughts of wizardry out of his young head. Now that Mark knew who and what he was, the book couldn't do him any harm. Besides, he was interested in finding out more about the secret society the two Aurors lived in.

When they were all set, Mark walked further into the city with them. "So, I just do something with magic and they'll find me?" he asked.

Alastor was tugging on his fingerless gloves. "That's the idea. And we'll be waiting there." He pointed back towards the trap.

Mark took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay. See you at the graveyard."

"Well, that dinnae sound morbid at'all," Tiberius muttered.

Shooting him a grin, Mark headed down the street. The trick would be to set off magic, but not too much—he didn't want to exhaust himself before the fight had even started. He also needed to do it in a way that would not attract attention from the regular Londoners. After considering a moment, Mark slipped down an alley. He made sure that he had two outs, and then turned to the garage bags sitting beside the houses. "Àhafennes," he whispered. "_Up._"

The trash bags lifted. He let them go five feet off the ground, and then said, "Scyte." The bags flew into the back wall of the alley with a resounding crash. "Hopefully that'll be enough," Mark said to himself, stepping into the main street to wait.

It was not long before he sensed them—a prickling of magic on his arms. He glanced at the crowd, but couldn't make them out. But he wasn't going to stick around for them to hex him again. With his blood rushing in his ears—he wasn't sure if it was excitement or fear—he took off towards the graveyard.

Even without looking back, he could feel them following. By the time he got to the edge of the graveyard—where there were not many people—he could hear their feet behind him. A burst of red hit the gate as he jumped over it—a hex that had barely missed him. Mark ran to the middle of the graveyard and turned, panting, to face his hunters.

There were five of them. They came to a stop about fifteen feet away, and one raised his wand to cast a spell.

Alastor and Tiberius stepped out of their hiding places on Mark's right and left. Keeping his eyes on the men, Mark said, "Give me back the book and we can avoid trouble."

"The book's worth more than two Aurors can do," the one with the wand replied. "You won't frighten us into surrender."

"Well, I've never been one to refuse an invitation," Alastor replied, leveling his wand towards them.

Another one of the men—this one with coal black hair—took the book from among his robes. Mark felt his heart twist at the sight of it. "Think twice before you attack," shouted the man, putting his wand against the book. "We could destroy this with a word."

"Suppose it depends on who's quicker," Tiberius remarked.

Mark watched the book, chewing his lip as he tried to decide whether he should summon it. But if he was not fast enough, they could destroy the journal in a moment.

The first man spoke again. "Or you could simply let us take the young insane man, and we could avoid a duel."

"Didn't someone just say something about never surrendering?" Alastor asked, glancing aside at Tiberius.

"Believe so," Tiberius answered.

"Let's go with that then."

There may have been more taunts and threats, but Mark ceased to hear them. He exhaled, and felt his defenses fall. Every mind was open to him at once—Alastor, Tiberius, and the men. Instantly he could see their enemies' motives. They wanted Mark to use as a tool for power. The book was useless to them, because his magic worked in a differently than theirs. "They won't destroy it," Mark heard himself say, though the sound was distant to his ears. "They need both the journal and me to get what they want. We're each useless without the other."

"Why didn't you just say so?" Alastor snapped. He shot a hex at the first man, and the robed figures all dove behind grave markers and statues for cover. Mark stood still as Alastor and Tiberius took cover as well. Never before had he been able to feel all this activity at once—seven different sets of thoughts and plans of attack and all the spells they knew and what they were about to shoot off.

Someone grabbed Mark's sleeve, and he stumbled behind a weeping angel with Tiberius. "Watch out!" Tiberius said.

Words. There were hundreds of words in their thoughts. Mark glanced around the stone statue. _Are all battles like this?_ he wondered. _Battles of thought and wit and words, not strength or spells. _

Tiberius pushed past him to keep up with Alastor as they made an advance. Ducking behind him, Mark followed. Moving felt odd—like he was watching himself in a dream, while everyone's thoughts were much clearer than what he was seeing. Someone pulled him down behind a gravestone.

Mark glanced over the top. One of the men was about to shoot at the grave, to destroy their protection. "Niðerscyfe!" Mark shouted. His spell sent the man to the ground, and Alastor followed up with a binding hex.

They were advancing again, coming to the courtyard of the church with the cloaked men on the opposite side. Alastor dove behind a large gravestone, grabbing Mark's shirt and yanking him down. A stunner someone had shot at him whizzed by. The world came into focus again, and Mark blinked a mist from his eyes. "Would you _please_ go hide behind something?" Alastor snapped, looking over the top of the grave at the others.

_Reducto!_ came the thought of one of the men. Mark jerked Alastor down in time to save him from being hit. "Sorry," he said.

Swearing under his breath, Alastor shot off a quick succession of spells over the grave marker. "Just stay put."

Mark closed his eyes, letting the thoughts of the men wash over him. "They're going to make a charge. The three taller ones. The one with the book and the leader are going to stay back."

"Er…" Alastor glanced at Mark in skepticism, but then seemed to think better of it. "Tiberius! Three coming center!"

"On it!" Tiberius shouted

Alastor knelt quickly to look Mark in the face. "Stay. Put." He flinched as a spell hit the gravestone, and rubble fell around them.

There was a rush of adrenalin from one of them—that would be Tiberius as he rushed out. Alastor was close on his heels. The three cloaked men had moved to meet them. One stretched out his wand—

Mark jumped up and yelled to Tiberius, "Watch out—"

The spell, a stunner, hit Tiberius square in the chest, and he dropped to the ground. "Tiberius!" Alastor shouted, diving towards him. He was distracted. A hex hit him in the shoulder, throwing him off balance.

There was a rush of thoughts. It was a ploy. The three men were a distraction. The leader had been biding his time, waiting for a chance to kill both Aurors at once. _The Death Curse. _Mark jumped over the ruins of the grave he'd been behind, hearing the man shout, "_Avada—_!"

Alastor was pushing himself up as Mark ran in front of them. There was no thought in Mark's mind but that in two seconds they would be dead. He had to stop it, _now_.

His hands went out, and his gut twisted in pain as something ripped out of him. A wave of blue air shot forward, shaking the ground and shattering gravestones. Five minds shut off at once, and Mark found himself standing blindly in a cloud of dust.

Dirt swirled through the air, thick and heavy, and Alastor found himself coughing, eyes squeezed shut as he swung his wand blindly. No one attacked though, and as soon as the broken monument settled the graveyard lapsed into silence, broken by occasional coughs and wheezes. Reaching out, still half-blind, Alastor managed to find what felt like Tiberius' sleeve, taking hold and pulling his friend upright. Tiberius sounded as though he had inhaled a lungful of dust, coughing and hacking violently as Alastor clapped him on the back. The movement made his shoulder ache where the spell had grazed him, but he ignored the pain, sense still on high alert.

"Where've they gone?" Alastor asked, steadying Tiberius with one hand and swinging his wand in a wide arc.

The dust cleared and revealed Mark, a shadow at first and then real again, swaying on his feet and looking disoriented. "I... um... They ought to—still be here."

Tiberius bent over coughing, clutching at his stomach, and Alastor banished the cloud of dust that lingered over them. His eyes stung, heartbeat pounding in his ears, and any moment now one of the black-robed men would jump out and attack. Any moment. But the dirt cleared, and nothing moved, the graves all utterly still. Alastor stepped past Mark, glancing around just to make sure.

"Well, they're not," he growled.

"What?" Mark rubbed his head, still fairly dazed as he looked around.

"They're. Not. Here." Alastor gritted his teeth, emphasizing every word. "Gone. Vanished."

"Couldnae have Apparated," Tiberius said at last.

"I'm aware of that," Alastor replied, glaring at Mark as he waited for an explanation.

Mark seemed to come to his senses, pushing past Alastor and scanning the ground, somewhere near desperate.

"They can't be gone!"

Whether Mark wanted to believe it or not, the men almost certainly were gone, and probably due to his own actions. Alastor let the searching go on a moment longer before speaking up again.

"Then perhaps you and your boundless knowledge can explain how they've suddenly become INVISIBLE?"

His volume had admittedly been increasing as he spoke, but he shouted the last word, shattering the stillness. Alastor knew that had the men actually still been around, he probably would have just alerted them to the fact that he and Tiberius and Mark were still around as well, but at present he could not seem to care. He had had just about enough of know-it-all Mark.

"Maybe your spell failed!" Mark shouted back, rounding on Alastor now. "They hardly had time to run off!"

"My spell—" Alastor stepped closer and scowled, feeling his face go red, "—did not fail. It's still fully functional."

To prove this, more to himself than Mark because Merlin knew now would not be a good time to be wrong, Alastor raised his wand and checked that the Anti-Apparition Wards were still in place. Fortunately, all of them seemed to be, and even the Detection Charms he sent out returned without results. Tiberius, meanwhile, had wandered a few steps away, bending to inspect what appeared to be a tattered black robe. Alastor suspected that moments ago, the robe had been worn by one of the attackers, but now it looked to be definitely empty.

"Think they're quite gone, lads," Tiberius said.

Mark had been searching through the rubble, but he turned to look at Tiberius. "What do you mean?"

Tiberius straightened up, wincing as he moved. He held the black robe between two long fingers, fluttering like a shadow in the breeze.

"Not exactly runnin' about starkers, are they? They're not here."

"But..." Mark ran both hands through his hair, beginning to look slightly frantic. "I killed them?"

"Vanished, more like," Tiberius corrected.

"Well, they didn't ruddy Apparate. The wards are still up," Alastor declared, just in case anyone had been doubting that fact. "So yes, you Vanished them. Well done."

Really this was not quite so bad as Mark seemed to think. The fight had been resolved, one way or another, and no one was trying to hex them anymore, which was always a plus. Alastor could not quite understand why Mark insisted on being so worked up.

"Is there... any sign of the book?" Mark asked, glancing around at the ground again.

Oh. The book. That was the whole reason they had staged this mission to begin with. Suddenly finding the book seemed like a rather important thing indeed, because he would not be especially pleased to have been hexed for nothing.

"_Accio book_!" Alastor said, flourishing his wand and waiting. Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened.

Tiberius tried a Summoning Charm of his own, but his failed to produce the book as well.

"Guess not. It must have... well..."

Mark shook his head, still searching, apparently refusing to accept the fact that the book was simply _not there_.

"Probably your spell that did it," Alastor muttered under his breath. He had been talking mostly to himself, but apparently both Tiberius and Mark heard him, gazes both abruptly locking on him.

"Alastor." Tiberius shook his head. "Donnae."

Alastor shrugged, perfectly content to stand by his words. They were probably true, after all, and there was no way to prove otherwise.

"Maybe next time I'll just let you both _fry_ instead of diverting them," Mark spat.

"Didn't ask you to jump in, did I?" Alastor countered. "Matter of fact, I think I said to _stay bloody put_."

"You didn't know what was about to happen!" Mark insisted.

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. You know everything that's going to happen," Alastor muttered, rolling his eyes. Had he been irritated before, he was working his way up to a fine temper now, and struggling hard to keep things under control. "Obviously you seem to have missed the glaring issue of _destroying your own ruddy book_!"

That probably had not been the best thing to say, because to Alastor's great surprise Mark answered by punching him squarely in the jaw. Alastor stumbled back a step or two, startled for just a moment. Then the last hold of his self-control vanished, and his temper was roaring, blood pounding in his ears. Alastor reached out, grabbing hold of Mark by the front of his shirt and smashing his elbow into Mark's stomach.

"Oi!" Tiberius shouted, sounding very far away. Alastor ignored him, and Mark did as well, gasping for breath as he pulled at Alastor's wrist, trying to free himself.

"That was my only way home!" Mark managed, still spluttering for air.

Alastor had not loosened his hold, and in fact began pushing Mark backward, his heels digging into the dirt every few steps in an effort to stop the progress. Eventually, Mark managed to hook his ankle around Alastor's, tripping him up. Momentum sent Alastor forward though, and he caught himself with one hand against the ground. The other hand he quickly wrapped around Mark's knee, pulling the other boy down as hard as he could.

"Pity you didn't see that coming then. Can you see this, you reckon?"

Before Mark could answer, Alastor struck out, connecting his fist with the side of Mark's face. Dazed now, Mark tried to roll away, but Alastor had hold of his shirt again and he was going nowhere fast. Alastor managed to pin him quickly, administering a swift knee to Mark's ribs for good measure.

"Guess that's a no."

Alastor knew, somewhere, in the far back of his mind, that he really ought to stop. But this was all Mark's ruddy fault anyway, all this stupid business, and especially his fault that the attacker had escaped. Not to mention, Alastor had not forgotten Mark's words in the alley three days before. No one spoke about his father like that. No one.

"Can't get any blinder than you, at least." Mark gasped.

"Suggest you consider your position—" Alastor paused to jab his elbow into Mark's stomach again, "—and apologize." Mark swung a wild fist, and Alastor ducked away easily. Merlin, he had not exactly been expecting a prize-fight match, but this was almost disappointing. He started to rise, dragging Mark to his feet as he did. "Perhaps you didn't hear me. Apologize, now."

"I'm sorry I saved your bloody life, thereby trapping myself here and killing my family!" Mark roared.

"What part of 'I didn't ask you' don't you understand?" Alastor shouted back equally as loud. "And besides that—you're completely mental!"

"Well then next time I'll ask your permission before I let you get killed!"

Tiberius made another effort to intervene, a more direct one this time. His hands closed around Alastor's shoulders, trying to pry him away from Mark, but Alastor would not budge. Mark, too, had resorted to shoving by this point.

"Let me go."

Alastor merely scowled, tightening his hold if anything.

"Let me go, Alastor," Mark repeated.

Making quick use of a convenient grave, Alastor backed Mark up against a monument and lifted him off his feet.

"Can't say I much feel like it, _Mark_. I'm a bit irritated. If you haven't noticed. And somehow I'm fairly sure this is all your fault."

"It couldn't have gone quite so brilliantly without your help," Mark replied.

"You're welcome," Alastor said, choosing to take that as a compliment and simply not consider the alternative meanings.

Mark turned his hand palm-out toward Alastor, speaking under his breath in that odd language. Before Alastor could draw his wand, he was thrown backward, colliding with another gravestone a few feet away. The impact sent a jolt of pain through him, and he lay still for a moment, all the air knocked out of him. Slumped against the gravestone, palms pressed to the dirt, Alastor swore under his breath and forced himself to at least rise to his knees. He drew his wand as he did, firing a quick jinx.

_"Stupefy_!"

Mark ducked behind the monument, and the spell flew harmlessly away.

"Coward!" Alastor roared.

Tiberius reached out again, trying to help Alastor up and at the same time trying to keep him away from Mark.

"Let him alone. They're gone, beating him up wonnae fix it."

Alastor shrugged out of Tiberius hold, all but ignoring him. "No, but it certainly makes me feel better."

Closing the distance toward the monument, Alastor tried for another jinx, and while this one missed as well it was not quite so badly as the first.

"Get back out here and fight fair!"

"No. It's pointless," came the reply.

Alastor could not see Mark, but his mind provided an image of the fellow sitting with his back to the gravestone, arms crossed and frowning like a pouting child. For some reason, the idea irritated him further. Lowering his wand, Alastor reached overtop of the gravestone and seized hold of the back of Mark's shirt, hauling him upright.

"What? You being stubborn, you still trying to be a mental bloody know it all, or both? Or is there something I've missed?"

"You beating me up isn't going to help me get back. It looks like nothing is. So why should I fight?" Mark asked, turning to face him.

"Because it at least makes it marginally more interesting for me," Alastor growled. "And this is mostly your fault anyway. Certainly not my fault you vanished your own book."

Alastor had really been doing nothing more than poking Mark in the chest with two fingers as he spoke, which he felt was a rather civil way to have that conversation. Mark, for his part, reached up and tried to knock Alastor's hand away.

"Go on. I don't need your help, and you don't want to file the paper work about how you beat up the weird kid. I want to be alone."

"Well that's grand," Alastor snorted. "I want a new broom, personally."

"What?" Mark blinked, confused by the sudden turn.

"I'm sorry, here I thought we were talking about things that probably weren't going to happen," Alastor replied. "You're not going to be left alone, and I doubt I'll be the owner of a new broom anytime soon."

"Probably could be arranged, if you both would stop fighting for a moment," said a new voice.

The voice caught Mark entirely off-guard, and he jumped as he turned from Alastor to look into the eyes of his great-grandfather. The man smiled a little, looking pleased.

Tiberius had raised his wand. "You again?"

Unwillingly, Alastor let go of Mark's shirt. The man, Jon, stepped over the rubble, taking a small book from his pocket. "Here you are, Mark."

Mark reached out to take it, his mind numb with surprise. His mother's journal—still in one piece. A moment ago, he had been devastated by its loss, and he found he had a difficult time believing it was in his hands again.

"There. Problem solved," said Alastor from behind.

Flipping through the book to be sure it was not damaged, Mark stuttered, "How—?"

Jon was trying not to smile, but Mark could see that he was quite proud of himself. "Summoned it just before you blew those fellows away. Pretty powerful stuff. But you'll note that you didn't use a language to do it."

"What?" asked Mark, feeling increasingly confused.

"Old English doesn't affect your magic at all," Jon explained. "It's just—well, training wheels, essentially. You learn to control the flow of magic with words, but eventually the flow comes naturally and you don't need language any more. At least, that's how my brother explained it." He smiled, taking a pipe out of his pocket and dusting it off. "I'm not an expert. Never have been that good at it. But I think if you want to, you can travel yourself back to 2010 without having to say anything at all."

"I could have gone back this whole time?" Mark asked.

Jon shrugged, filling the pipe with tobacco shavings. "Yes, I suppose so."

Mark pushed himself up, clenching the book in his hand. "Why didn't you tell me the first time we met? Do you know how much trouble we've been through?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't have learned a thing." He lit his pipe and stuck it into the side of his mouth. "Besides, at that point you might not have been strong enough to do it without language. I didn't want you to end up like Sir Isaac Newton."

"Oh, you're having me on," Alastor groaned. "Back to this again?"

Tiberius shushed him. "Tis a family affair, I told you. Let them deal with it."

With some grumbling, Alastor fell silent. Mark rubbed his head, feeling the tension of the last week slowly easing out of his shoulders. "Of course," he said, smiling a little. "It always seems to come back to Sir Isaac Newton."

Jon fixed Mark with a serious look. "Don't time travel again, once you get back. Messing with the past is dangerous business."

Alastor sputtered something and moved away.

Mark ignored him. Holding out his hand to shake with Jon, he said, "Right. Thank you, for all you've done."

"Always glad to have a bit of adventure," Jon remarked, giving Mark's hand a hard squeeze. "Makes the life of a shop owner a bit more interesting."

Smiling, Mark glanced down at his book. He thought for a moment, turning the pages slowly, and then turned to Tiberius. "Can I speak with Donald one more time?"

Tiberius looked quite baffled. "Ah...sure. Why do you need ta?"

Mark snapped the book shut. "He's got something of mine and I'm not leaving without it."


	7. Parting Thoughts

A/N - Here we have the last chapter, the finale, what-have-you. On behalf of both Scholar and myself, may I say we sincerely hope you've enjoyed our little story.

* * *

Mark found himself once again outside of Donald's office. The walk back had been awkward, to say the least, but Alastor hadn't tried to kill him. Mark could feel bruises starting on his ribs and face from the fight earlier—the first fistfight he'd ever been in, actually.

Knocking on the door, Alastor called, "Don, you in?"

The door remained shut. A voice answered, "That would depend on why."

"Someone wants a word with you," Alastor said, jerking his thumb towards Mark even though Donald could not see.

There was a moment of silence. "Send him in then."

"What, we're not invited?" Alastor asked, sounding a little cross. There was no response from within, and after a moment Alastor turned to Mark expectantly.

Reaching past Alastor, Mark opened the door. "Thanks. See you guys later."

Tiberius nodded. Sticking his hands in his pockets and stepping out of the way, Alastor gave a curt nod as well. Mark entered the room, shutting the door behind him. It looked the same as last time, with the view from the windows and the extreme cleanliness. If it hadn't been for the smell of cigarettes, Mark would have felt the room more fitting for a countryside manor than an office in the middle of the city.

Donald was seated at his desk, tinkering with some silver instruments and a small globe of some sort. "I have a question," Mark said, watching him.

"I thought you might," Donald answered, straightening. With a series of smooth motions, he put his tools aside, shrunk the globe, and motioned for Mark to take a seat. Mark sat in the chair opposite Donald's desk, his journal in his lap. He could not help looking at the globe with interest. Donald caught the look, and answered, "I've been doing some work with Croaker, from the Time Division. And I'm afraid that's all I can say." He smiled. "They do call us Unspeakables for a reason."

"Ah," said Mark, leaning back into the chair. "I'll try not to read your memories, then." He smiled, but it faded as he continued. "My question pertains to your remark about prophecy. But first, did the thought thing work—did you see what happened?"

Donald became suddenly solemn. "I saw what you saw, yes."

"What did you think of it?" Mark asked, leaning forward again.

"I think... I think you have an interesting talent," Donald said slowly. "And you'll forgive me if I say that I hope this is one prophecy that does not come true."

Mark nodded in agreement. He pressed closer to the question he really wanted to ask. "You said that the future is never certain. It's just possible. Do you think that people can change the future, then?"

Casting a shrewd look overtop his glasses, Donald said, "The future is never set. It's a pattern of choices." He paused, and an understanding came into his eyes. "But you're not really trying to change the future. What you want to change is what's already happened, am I correct? It's the future to me, but to you, it's the past."

"But it hasn't happened yet in the real timeline of things," Mark protested.

"Who's to say which timeline is real, though?"

"History is real, and history just moves in one direction," Mark said, trying to draw on his Liberal Arts education. "I'm the one moving outside of it."

With some amusement, Donald said, "I believe thousands of scholars just began wailing in agony at your suggestion." He took a cigarette from his pocket, and put it between his lips. Raising his eyebrows, he offered another one to Mark.

Shaking his head, Mark said, "No thanks." He watched as Donald took a zippo lighter out of his pocket. "But there has to be one reality. Time moves forward."

Donald shrugged, lighting the cigarette and returning his lighter to a pocket. He leaned back into his chair and took a long draw from the cigarette, thinking. "True enough. Who's to say reality has only one facet?" Reaching forward, he picked up a quill pen and pointed it towards Mark. "From certain angles, you can only see parts of the pen, yes?"

"Right."

Slowly, Donald rotated the pen until it faced the opposite direction. "But really, it has several sides, several ways of looking at it. Sometimes though, we can only see things from" –he pointed it back towards Mark— "one perspective."

Sighing, Mark said, "This is why I stick to science."

Donald laughed. A puff of smoke escaped, and when Mark glanced at it again it seemed to be turning into a raven. "It's a science, in its own way. Not quite so exact as a scientist might like, I suppose."

Though the raven made Mark almost smile, he kept his voice serious as he said, "Well... Then I suppose I'd like to have the copy of the book you made."

"Really now?" Donald asked. "I certainly don't mind, but might I ask why?"

"I need to cover my tracks." Donald waited for an explanation, blowing out another bit of smoke that shaped itself into a cat. Taking a deep breath, Mark said, "I've messed up enough. I need to make sure nothing more leaks out about the family. Just in case something else goes wrong."

"Safe-keeping, then?"

Shifting, Mark said, "More I would like to destroy the book so there's just one that has to be looked after."

"So whenever you make your departure... I'm to remove the book in whatever manner I see fit?"

As much as Mark thought Donald was trustworthy, he shook his head. "Or you could give it to me and I'll do it. That is what I was originally thinking."

"I can't say I mind either way," Donald said. He reached into one of the drawers of his desk. "You're quite concerned about all this time traveling business, aren't you?" he asked, still fishing through the contents.

Mark dropped his eyes to the wooden panels of the desk. "I think I may have killed my family by coming here," he said after a moment.

With a little click, Donald pushed the drawer closed. He set the copy of the book on the desk. It looked almost exactly the same as the one Mark held, but it was in a much better condition. Looking at Mark, Donald blew something like a smoke bear out of the side of his mouth. "What makes you say that?"

"Before my uncle died, he told me that no one in the family had been hunted until my mum grew up," Mark explained, motioning a little with his hands. "They went after her—eventually killed her—even though she didn't use her magic. The first few pages of the book is a letter from her. If they translated that, they would have been looking for her. That would explain why she died."

Donald looked at the book, taking another long drag from his cigarette as he thought. Finally he leaned back into his chair and looked Mark in the face. "So you think that had you not come back, everything would be different?"

"Basically, yeah," Mark admitted.

"Did you know, I have a theory. Several of us have a theory. Concerning time travel. In order for it to be possible, which, clearly it is, it has to have already happened."

"What do you mean?"

Donald waved his cigarette as he spoke. "If people were always jumping backwards in time, things would always be changing, events would alter. The universe would unravel. So what if these time travelers are in fact doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing? Events..." He paused to take another drag. "Events unfold as they do because of the choices people make. Time traveling doesn't change the past then. It's simply... part of it."

_So I can't have changed it,_ Mark thought, staring at the desk. _I killed them even before I was born. _His chest felt empty, but he said, "I suppose that makes sense."

"Merlin, that was supposed to cheer you up a bit," Donald said, shaking his head and leaning forward again. "Listen, Mark, like I said, all sorts of choices affect what happens to us. You can't blame yourself."

Mark chose to ignore that last comment. It would be a while before he'd sort through this, and he wasn't ready to do that in Donald's office. Forcing a smile, he reached for the copy of the book. "It's fine. I got to meet a grandfather of mine, at least."

"I'm sure he enjoyed that," Donald said, also smiling.

"I think so." Mark shrugged. "He finally let me know how I'm to get home. But not before Alastor got a chance to give me a few bruises." Smiling a little, Mark touched the tender spot on his jaw.

"I take it he was a bit... irritated?"

"Ha. With reason, I guess." Mark stood, shifting both the books into one arm. "Thanks for all your help, Donald."

"Happy to help." He put out his cigarette and stood, too. "And I hope you know, Alastor and Tiberius were glad to help as well."

"I know," Mark said. "At the very least it was better than them filling out paperwork for the past couple of days."

"They do seem to detest the paperwork," Donald mused. "Especially if there's a fight to leap into somewhere else."

Mark held out his hand. "Well, feel free to look me up come 2010. I'll be around London that summer."

With a short laugh, Donald took Mark's hand and shook it. "Ha! I'll keep that in mind."

Mark walked to the door, and saluted Donald with two fingers before he stepped out of the room. Alastor and Tiberius were standing near the middle of the room outside, tossing bursts of light back and forth. As Mark walked out, Alastor caught the light with the end of his wand, made a complicated gesture, and sent the light zooming back towards Tiberius.

"Nice," said Mark, impressed.

Alastor turned, surprised. Tiberius reached up and caught the light, which he then vanished with a flick of his wand. They found themselves standing in the blue torchlight. Mark felt vaguely satisfied when the light revealed a small bruise forming on Alastor's chin.

"Chat go well?" Alastor asked.

"Fairly." Mark stepped away from the door. "Just wanted to say goodbye before I go. Thanks for helping me. I know I haven't been the easiest to look after, or get along with."

Alastor looked like he wanted to agreed, but Tiberius said, "'Twas quite an adventure, as promised. Nice ta have met you and all that."

With a sly grin, Alastor said, "And you're welcome, of course."

"You guys should definitely send me a postcard from your nursing home in 2010," Mark suggested, smiling crookedly. "Always happy to pay a visit."

"Nursing home?" Tiberius asked, lost.

"Where the Muggles send old folks," Alastor explained. He turned to Mark. "You seem to be assuming we'd need a nursing home. I plan to be catching Dark Wizards for a century, at least."

_Longer life-span_, Mark guessed. "Then we'll probably bump into each other some time," he said aloud. He held up his hand to wave goodbye, glancing from Tiberius to Alastor. Another flash hit him—apparently Alastor had a future that just begged for prophecies—of Alastor and his girl, Minerva, and years of quarreling and heartbreak. Apparently Alastor was considering proposing in the near future, but hadn't made up his mind yet.

"Oh hey," Mark said, "a word to the wise—just propose to Minerva. Save both of you a lot of heartache."

Alastor went slack-jawed, his eyes wide with surprise. "I…WHAT?"

Tiberius hid his mouth begin his hand, somewhere between laughter and shock.

With this final impression of them, Mark called, "See you!" He hadn't quite gotten the hang of magic without words yet, but he figured that since Old English wasn't necessary he could speak in the language of his choice. To himself, he whispered, "I'd like to go home." _Best to be specific_, he thought, and added, "London, June 14, 2010."

There was a roar of wind around Mark, and he shut his eyes tightly. When it died down again, he cracked one eye open, and then the other.

He was standing in Hyde Park, London, precisely where he had been when he read himself back in time. A quick glance around showed that trees shrouded him, and no one seemed to have noticed that he was there. For a moment, he glanced at the treetops and exhaled. When he breathed in, the air was thick with food and city smells.

"Well," he said to the wind, "apparently there are fish and chips nearby, and I am starving."

_The End_


End file.
